Perseverance
by Foil Candle
Summary: Stanley Pines had to chew his way out of the trunk of a car. In hindsight, it sounded like a funny story, but he doesn't remember it being so funny at the time.
1. Chapter 1

Author's note: I'll try and update this once a week, or maybe every couple of days if possible. This is my first time writing a fanfic, by the way, so any tips or helpful criticisms you could give me are very much appreciated.

* * *

Chapter 1

Through perseverance many people win success out of what seemed destined to be certain failure. - Benjamin Disraeli

* * *

Stanley sat slumped over the edge of the boat, his arms dangling loosely above the shining sea that was stretched out all around them. The sunlight was especially merciless today, unbearably bright and heavy, weighing down on him like a pile of hot stones. The sheer intensity of its rays pierced through the back of his eyes, and scrambled his thoughts, leaving him in a breathless daze.

It was a hazy day, hot, white, and windless.

He felt… sleepy, but not in a pleasant way. His brain kept tempting him with the idea of just slipping all the way off the vessel, and into the enticingly cool water below as a nice little wake-up call. He might have gone through with it too if it hadn't required him to sort of stand up, or otherwise move large portions of his body around. Stanley wasn't sure if he was up for that sort of strenuous activity at the moment. Already the task of lifting his head a little every now and then in an effort to catch bits of 'whatever it was' that his brother going on about in the background, was proving to be quite difficult.

It was something about navigation, he thought. Something about masts, and sails, and derricks. Probably stuff having to do with fixing up the glorified pile of beach debris that the two young boys had the nerve to call a ship.

Maybe….Or maybe Stanford was rambling about something else entirely. He wasn't really sure.

Moving was too much effort. Trying to pay attention was even worse. And as such, it didn't take long for Stanley to abandon what little self-discipline he still had, and succumb completely to the sweltering, drowsy boredom that hung thickly in the air around him.

Pressing his cheek hard against the rough grain of the wood, and stretching out his arms, Stanley tried getting the tips of his fingers to reach the crests of the waves that half-heartedly slapped against the sides of the vessel below. It entertained him for a few minutes, till he blearily realized that despite his best efforts, every single one of the waves that came his direction was somehow slipping past him.

Obviously, the oddly lurching brine just wasn't in the mood to be touched. Stanley let out a small sigh of disappointment at that and then settled instead on simply letting his arms sway back and forth in time with the rocking of the boat.

Back and forth. Back and forth. Forth and back. Now spinning in itty bitty circles with a little swishing noise sound effect. Now in wider circles.

His… well, he wasn't quite sure _what_ he was doing by that point, was suddenly interrupted by what appeared to be two blue sneakers standing on top of the water before him. Slowly looking up, he was greeted by Stanford's disapproving pout.

"Hey, have you been listening to a word I've said"

Nope.

"How are doing that," Stanley asked, fueled both by his desire to change the subject and a genuine curiosity.

"Doing what?"

"Standing on the water like that."

Stanford's expression morphed to one of puzzled bewilderment, and then in the next beat to one of mild annoyance. "Are you playing pretend or something. Look I _told you_ , just because we fixed the frame doesn't mean the Stan'O War is going to be able to tread water anytime in the near future. In order to make this old girl seaworthy we're first going to have to attain the parts necessary to repair the pulleys on the foremast, then we'll need to..." Stanley felt his attention drifting away again, this time to a point on the horizon behind Stanford's big nerdy head.

It was strange, he thought. The water in the distance didn't even look blue; it looked more white, or gold. It shimmered and gleamed like it was just a wider, bigger version of the sun trying to blind him with its boiling glare. He squinted at it for a moment, and then for another moment, and then he began to feel something strange unfolding in his chest.

The ocean surrounding them was empty. There were no other boats out, no shoreline in sight. The water was vast, and lonely, and uncomfortably warm. And it dawned on him with a slow, melancholy clarity, that he felt the same way.

He was sad. His heart was burning, and heavy with grief, and he didn't really understand why.

There was a sudden loud "Hey!" followed by the sound of fingers snapping, and his brother's face came back into focus, now just inches from his own. Stanford frowned, his sharp eyes studying Stanley with a worried scrutiny "Hey, are you all right? You seem really out of it." He placed a sweaty hand against Stanley's forehead "I think you might be getting heatstroke."

The words were meaningless to Stanley. They didn't explain why he suddenly felt so sad. Why the world seemed like such a lonely and distant place. Usually Stanford was his anchor, but right now Stanley felt like he was slipping away from him somehow. Like he was being washed out by the blinding whiteness above and around them.

 ** _Wait. No, wait. He hadn't been to the Jersey beach in years. Why was he suddenly there now?_**

"See, this is exactly why you shouldn't just rush us out of the house haphazardly every morning. I knew we were forgetting something." Stanford closed his backpack with a frustrated zip.

 ** _With every breath he took the left side of his abdomen pulsed in furious agony. The air was too heavy, too thick. How was he supposed to breath in this stuff? He couldn't breath._**

"Water bottles. And it was on my checklist too."

 ** _He was hot. He was hot, and tired, and sad. And he didn't know why he was sad._**

"If you had just let me finish going through it instead of trying to... Are-…Are you crying?"

 ** _But Stanford was here with him, wasn't he? So why did he feel alone?_**

Stanley noticed a hand on his shoulder and turned his head up to meet his brother's concerned stare. Hot tears leaked out the sides of his eyes. Hot like boiling oil. Hot like the fire raging in the core of his heart.

It was what his mother liked to call his free spirit. The internal flame that kept him going; that fueled his anger and pushed him forward even when all he wanted to do was lie down and give up. As he looked into Stanford's eyes now it felt like an inferno. The muggy air around him was practically chilled in comparison.

Now more than ever, he realized that he didn't want to drift away. He didn't want to let go. He _needed_ Stanford. They needed each other. Didn't they?

"Hey…" Stanford put on a gentle smile, but he wasn't doing a good job of hiding the edge panic in his voice. "Hey, it's ok. It'll be ok, alright. The water bottles aren't that big of a deal. We'll just go ask old lady Wilson for something cold to drink, she seems nice enough." Stanley felt one of his arms being maneuvered around Stanford's sharp, boney shoulders, "She lives right on the shorefront so it won't be too far of a walk, alright. Just across the beach, then across the stree-

"Don't…. leave me. Ford…. promise me… you won't leave me. I don't wanna be alone."

"Huh?" Stanford paused and turned to him, not quite catching Stanley's quiet, tear choked murmuring.

Stanley suddenly felt very exposed under his brother's fixed gaze. And very confused. Like something had gotten out that wasn't supposed to have gotten out, and was still getting out, and _wanted_ to get out. He hesitated, flushed and disoriented, before wiping his cheeks, turning his head away, and continuing, "Even if I say otherwise…. I … I don't wanna be alone."

Stanley was facing away from his brother, so he couldn't really see his reaction. He wasn't sure he wanted to see his reaction. Half of him hoped that his brother hadn't been able to make out what he'd been saying at all. The other half…. he wasn't quite sure what the other half wanted. Maybe an echo? An acknowledgement that Stanford was just as afraid of losing him, as he was of losing Stanford?

Neither half got what they'd wanted.

Stanford's voice was warm and placating "Don't be ridiculous. I'm not leaving you, we're going there together." He squeezed the wrist of the arm slung over his shoulders for emphasis.

He was squeezing both of his wrists somehow, Stanley noticed. He was squeezing them far to tightly. His fingers were hard, and sharp, and burning hot.

 ** _No….. That wasn't right. Something was wrong_** _._

 ** _Where was he?_**

"Come on Stanley, lets get moving" Stanford grunted as he tried to get both of them into a standing position. Stanley's legs however were determined to be about as uncooperative as physically possible, and the pair toppled over the side of the boat, and into the white-hot sand below.

 ** _Why couldn't he move his legs? Why couldn't he move his arms? He was handcuffed to something?_**

He was so hot. His mouth was bone dry, and he was thirsty, and the world was tilting and blurring around him.

He was so hot.

He was so hot, and so dizzy, and it wasn't enough. It wasn't enough to have Stanford say that he wouldn't leave him, if that were even true (and some bitter, frightened voice in the back of his mind told him that it wasn't). He wanted to know that Stanford needed him too. He wanted to know that he wasn't just the lying, cheating, parasite that his father, that everyone, claimed him to be. He wanted to be wanted. And by Stanford more than anyone.

 ** _Why was it so hot? So hard to breath? He wasn't thinking clearly._**

There was movement beside him. There was a pair of hands on his shoulders. Someone was shaking him. Someone was trying to get him to sit up. Stanley couldn't sit up. Stanley didn't _want_ to sit up. The inferno inside of him was burning its way through every thought in his head. Someone was talking to him, yelling at him. _Stanford_ was yelling at him. But he was… far away.

They were both far away. Separated by the blinding, blazing, brightness of the ocean. By the sun, and the single sailing ship on the horizon. They were drifting apart, and there was nothing Stanley could do to stop it. He was drifting away from his brother, and towards something else.

 ** _There was a dull pounding ache near the back of his head. A dry, searing heat. Cramped muscles, chains, handcuffs. The loud buzzing of some obnoxious insect._**

 ** _And why, why, WHY, did it feel like he had taken a knife to the gut?!_**

 ** _Oh, that's right. He had. Hadn't he._**

Stan Pines, infamous conman and crook, awoke with a start; temporarily disoriented by the wall of pitch black that greeted his open eyes. He made a move to try and sit up, but found his body trapped in a curled back position that he couldn't get himself out of. Even if this hadn't been the case Stan still wouldn't have been able to get up, as he'd soon discovered upon lifting his head a few inches, only to have it collide with something hard, unyielding, and searing hot, directly above him. Actually he was surrounded pretty closely on all sides by that same something, save for the itchy, felt-like material beneath him which was only annoyingly hot.

Stan panted heavily for a moment or two, thoroughly confused and still struggling to shake off the last remnants of his dream. After his breathing had evened out a little, he closed his eyes, gathered his bearings, and attempted take stock of his current situation.

He had been stabbed in the gut on his left side. He was lying horizontally _on his left side_. His hands were cuffed behind him. His legs were chained together. And _both_ were wrapped around each other, rendering him almost completely immobile. The back of his head felt like it had been personally victimized by a crowbar…. Oh, and if all this just wasn't enough, he was locked in the trunk of a car, in the middle of the desert, in what _had to be_ over 95 degree heat.

Stan let out a string of curses under his breath. What the hell had he gotten himself into this time.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's note: Slightly shorter chapter this time, but there's gonna be a lot of action in the next couple ones.

* * *

Chapter 2

Men fail much oftener from want of perseverance than from want of talent. - William Cobbett

* * *

If there was a lesson to be learned from this less than ideal situation, (Stan had to pause to laugh at that. Him? Actually learning from his mistakes? It was never going to happen.) it was that trying to cross the leader of one of the most powerful weapon and drug cartels in all of Colombia, was a very dumb idea. This was especially true when the crime lord in question _also_ just so happened to be one of your former 'prison buddies', and apparently hadn't taken much of a liking to you while you'd both been holed up in there. Oddly enough their other cellmate, a loan shark by the name of Rico, hadn't really taken much of a liking to Stan while he'd been there either (He couldn't imagine why, Stan personally found himself to be very likable).

Wait; speaking of Rico, didn't he owe that guy some money?

…

Well, all things considered, that was really the least of his worries right now. Besides, even if he wasn't particularly fond of Stan, Rico still seemed like a pretty reasonable guy. Stan was confident that he'd never have to worry about him pulling something like… like…

"What's the guys name again? Jerry… Jose… Jorge? Wait Jorge, yeah!" That had been it. Stan was confident that he'd never have to worry about Rico pulling something like Jorge had. Probably.

Stan gave a low groan. It really shouldn't have been _that_ hard for him to remember important details about his current predicament. Important details, for example, like the name of the drug lord that he'd somehow managed to piss off. The blow he'd received to the back of his head sometime last night however, was reacting badly with his dehydration-induced headache, and it made thinking a very painful and sluggish process. He could barely even remember how he'd gotten his injuries. Or how he'd ended up in the trunk of a car. Or what exactly had gone wrong with the scam he'd been trying to pull on Jorge and his merry band of thugs in the first place.

He thought he might have recalled some kind of scuffle happening? That probably explained how he'd gotten stabbed, though thankfully the wound wasn't too deep or else he would have bled to death already. He also remembered something about being outnumbered, and some long-winded speech about leaving him to a fate worse than death. Blah blah blah. You know, the usual.

What had he even done to Jorge anyways? Had he been trying to steal money from the guy? Or, wait no. Even though Stan was always a slut for fast cash, he wasn't _that_ stupid. No, he remembered now. _Someone else_ had stolen money from Jorge, and Stan had agreed to help smuggle the guy into the U.S. for a decent cut of the haul.

Who had that man been again? Was he still alive?

Stan's head was throbbing, pulsing against a thick white wall of static.

"Doesn't matter." He mumbled, trying to dismiss his unease about the other man's condition. It wasn't like there was much Stan could do for him now, whatever his fate had been. And it wasn't like he was Stan's responsibility either. Hell, he was the one who had gotten Stan into this mess in the first place; a mess which he was now not going to get paid for. Wasn't _that_ just great.

After what had happened with Stanfo-. After what had happened with _him,_ Stan had learned that it was best to really only look out for number one anyways. That was certainly all anyone else ever did.

"Gotta get outta here quick," he rasped to himself a little louder, trying to regain his focus "or I'm gonna end up like one of Ma's burnt fish dinners." The temperature of the air around him certainly felt appropriate for one of his mother's culinary disasters.

Yes, getting out of there. That was all he had to do. That was it. He just needed to come up with a way of doing it without the use of his arms, or legs, and with the left side of his abdomen screaming at him like it was no one's business. He could do that.

…

He had no idea how he was going to do that.

This was honestly one of the worst situations he could ever recall getting himself into.

Stan tried to pump himself up a more few times. He tried to convince himself that it would all turn out all right. That all he needed to do was loosen his bonds a bit, find a way out of the locked trunk, maybe hotwire the car to get himself back to civilization (Who's car was this anyways? It certainly wasn't the Stanley mobile), and then he'd be back to fleecing idiots with faulty products by the end of tomorrow. Unfortunately for Stan's quickly fraying nerves it wasn't really in his nature to be an optimist, and for all the skill he employed in lying to others, he wasn't particularly great at lying to himself.

He tested the bonds on his wrists and ankles for a second time, and then a third, and then a fourth, and then a fifth time. He writhed and flexed, and stretched without regard to the protests of his banged up body. He tried maneuvering around in the cramped space so he could prop himself up in a better position.

Nothing. Nothing was budging even an inch. He had no wiggle room.

Stan's heart started beating very loudly and quickly in his chest.

He lay there for a moment in the boiling darkness, racking his brains for some way, any way, to get out of this mess. Nothing came to him. The small ball of dread that had been slowly growing in the pit of his stomach, blossomed suddenly into a large thorny tangle of terrified despair, and for a few moments Stan found himself struggling just to keep his breathing even. His eyes stung from a mixture of sweat dripping into them, and tears that he was trying his hardest not to let drip out.

Now was not the time to panic. That wasn't going to do him any good.

Keeping calm wasn't doing him much good either. Nothing was doing him any good.

The heat in the trunk of the car was simply put, unbearable, and it was growing worse and worse each second that he stayed in there. His shirt, which had been completely soaked with sweat by the time he'd finally snapped out of his feverish nightmare, was now almost dried, and his tongue was starting to feel like a heavy woodchip resting just above his parched aching throat. He was suffering from heat exhaustion that was quickly turning into full-blown heatstroke. He needed to cool down, and he needed water, and he needed both about half an hour ago.

He was hot. He was thirsty. He was trapped. And he was going to die in here.

In a fit of near hysterical desperation, he yanked on the sharp, scorching metal cuffs that encircled his wrists, hard and fast, again and again. He kicked, and squirmed, and screamed, till the muscles in his legs were in burning with exhaustion and the skin on his wrists was torn and bleeding.

This wasn't doing him any good. Of course thrashing about mindlessly wasn't doing him any good! But what else could he do?!

"Oh come on, come on. This can't be happening, there has to be a way!"

If he could just get his hands free, he could do something with that! Aside from himself however, the trunk was completely empty. While Stan was no amateur when it came to getting himself out of handcuffs, he would at least need something to pick them with. Why couldn't he have at least had that!?

He didn't even have the luxury of being able to think with a clear head.

Between the sharp pain in his side, and the dull pounding ache in back of his head, and the sweltering broiling heat that ravaged his body, and the scorching breathless fear that had taken hold of his reason, and the warm delirious meandering of his thoughts, and the slowly rising tide of hopeless bitterness in his chest, there was just no way he could think rationally. It was too crowded in there. Thinking of a way out was impossible.

He couldn't get out. It was impossible.

Despair squeezed firmly around his heart, and it was almost enough to make him give up then and there.

The worst part of it all was the fact that his death wasn't even going to be mourned by anyone.

Stan Pines wasn't exactly well liked by your average model citizen, or even by the criminal underbelly. He was a creature that didn't really fit into either world, but lurked in a purgatory between the two. Not noble or competent enough for one, and not quite brutal or heartless enough for the other. He was a lying, cheating, shyster. An opportunistic, lowlife grifter. A snake oil salesman. A petty crook. He'd never done anything beneficial for anyone but himself, and he hadn't really even done such a good job of that.

If he were to just disappear off the face of the earth right now, no one would even miss him. Not family, not friends (friend in the singular, he thought, because he'd really only ever had one), not anybody.

He'd die without ever having the chance to make amends, to make things right between himself and …

The truth of that last thought struck Stan with all the force of a train hitting a small fuzzy rodent, and he felt himself being pinned down under the colossal weight of it.

Drained, weakened, and drowsy with heat, Stan could do nothing for a long while, but lie paralyzed in a listless stupor.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's note: The chewing part didn't actually take as prominent of a role as I'd initially meant it to... _but_ I kinda like the direction the story is going right now, so I'm just gonna roll with it.

* * *

Chapter 3

Success is the child of drudgery and perseverance. It cannot be coaxed or bribed; pay the price and it is yours. - Orison Swett Marden

* * *

He was alone. He was alone in the entire world. He had no one he could count on. It didn't use to be that way, but it was now, and it was entirely his own fault.

He didn't like to admit it, but on the rare occasions where Stan had actually worked up the nerve to be completely honest with himself, he knew that there was absolutely no way he was going to make it out of this on his own. The endless abyss of perpetual failure that his life had become, had grown too deep, and he, had grown far too comfortable wallowing in the muck at the bottom. With each passing year, and each figurative shovel full of dirt, it became more and more apparent that his only hope for redemption lay in _someone else_ helping him get back up. If no one reached down to him, if no one offered him the little boost of motivation he needed to start climbing again, Stan was just going to keep sinking.

Now a days whenever he was faced with something that most would consider 'illegal', 'immoral', 'incredibly stupid', or ' that's seriously messed up, how could you possibly stoop so low', Stan would simply shrug his shoulders, plug his nose, and jump right in without a second thought.

'Meh, what the hell' had become his constant mantra. The way he saw it he was already at rock bottom, so why not just take out his pickaxe and start digging himself straight into perdition while he was there. At this point, it was probably easier to continue going down then it was to suddenly change directions anyways.

Really though, it wasn't like Stan _didn't want_ to get out. He really did _want_ to do better. He _wanted_ to be successful, and he'd _tried_ , he'd tried _so hard_ to do it. But every time he now craned his neck up in an attempt to catch sight of his eventual goal, the distance between where he was now and where he'd wanted to be, could only be described as absolutely horrifying. And if he was feeling brave enough to bend his head back even further to catch sight of _that person_ , standing atop a skyscraper with a college diploma in one hand and a check for an enormous sum of money in the other, he'd usually find himself overcome with the inexplicable urge to drown his discouragement in cheap booze and then pass out in a pile of empty Stan co. boxes.

Unfortunately, _that person_ also happened to be the only one Stan could think of who _might_ be willing to lend him the hand he needed if he were to ever consider asking him. He had seriously considered it, twice in fact, but ultimately decided against it both times. His reasons for doing so were comprised mostly of guilt, with a small pinch of resentment, and a big heaping helping excruciating shame.

After… the incident, that stupid mistake that had cost him his family, his home, and his best friend, _he_ had never once tried to contact Stanley. Either he had gotten too busy with his own life to make the attempt, or he was still holding onto a grudge, or he just didn't care, or all of the above, it didn't matter. Stanley _couldn't_ be the one to contact him first. At least… not without the money he needed to fix things in pocket. To do that would mean more than just admitting defeat. It would also mean admitting that everything his father had said about him, that everything everyone had ever said about him, had all been true. That he was a worthless loser, that he was stupid, that he was weak, that he was a parasite incapable of getting anywhere unless he was riding on _his_ coattails. And honestly, if that was all Stanley really was, then _he_ deserved better than to be burdened by Stanley's presence.

No, _he_ had to contact Stanley first. If he needed Stanley, then… then Stanley was allowed to need him. If he wanted nothing to do with Stanley, which seemed very likely given the lack of communication for the past seven years… well…

He was alone in the world. He was alone and no one would miss him if he died. Stanley was surer of that than he was sure of anything else in his life right now.

It should have made him sad, but it didn't. It was making him angry.

Without thought, Stan grit his teeth and rammed his head forward against the back of the taillight sitting in front of him. The blow struck its target with a deep, skull-rattling thunk, and the initial meeting of sharp metal and soft flesh left his lips, brow, cheek, and chin, cut, bruised, and bleeding. Stan wasn't in a state of mind to notice minor abrasions. He threw his head against it again.

Stan Pines wasn't a man who was exactly known for his cool head. It didn't really take much to rile him up, or get on his bad side, and it was, unfortunately, one of the main reasons that he'd always had such a tough time making lasting friendships. Even those who only knew him for a short while were quick to discover, hopefully before any serious altercation occurred, that he could and would lose his temper at the drop of a pin. Hell, when he wasn't busy running away from his problems, he was usually trying to give them a good punch in the face.

But still, he'd never felt anything quite like this before. Nothing in all his years of rancorous outbursts, in all of his tantrums, tirades, and violent explosions meant to damage either himself or the people around him, not _one_ of those instances even came close to the white-hot wrath that was consuming him right now. It was more powerful than a wildfire and more potent than a welding torch. It was a thick, glowing, molten metal that blistered every inch of his insides, and filled his head with a hazy, deep red.

It was an anger beyond fury. It was the anger of a wounded animal blindly charging at its hunter. The kind of anger that only comes to those who feel that they have nothing in their hearts left to lose; nothing, save for an utter hatred of their own existence, and the existence of the world around them.

It was more than enough to get Stan Pines up and moving again.

"IT WAS _SUPPOSED_ TO BE US FOREVER!" He roared, striking headfirst yet again at the corner of the trunk that had become the focal point for his frustrations. Blood started seeping heavily from his torn skin, and the warm cascade trickled into his nose, eyes, and mouth. His heart beat against the confines of his ribcage with a deep aching pressure. But he could barely feel anything that was happening to his body. The searing heat within him was completely overwhelming, filling up his chest and drowning him in a tidal wave of outrage.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair! IT WASN'T FAIR!

He didn't want to be alone! He didn't want to only look out for, and care about himself. He'd never wanted that! He didn't want to feel like he was half of a whole person, or even less than half. He didn't want to feel like an un-functioning failure of a human being, just because his life was an utter wreck without _him_ , but _he_ was flourishing without Stanley.

This wasn't how his life was supposed to turn out! He shouldn't be fleeing from state to state, from country to country. Running away from the law, running away from the disappointment of his family, running away from _him_! He shouldn't be homeless, living out of his car. He shouldn't be spending his nights hunched over the top of the steering wheel, attempting to sleep through thick smothering heat, and frost-laced frigid cold; waking up with a cramped neck to empty silences and aching loneliness. He shouldn't be eating most of his meals at the local gas station convenience store, or fast food place, or, heaven help him, soup kitchen on the days when he was desperate enough. He shouldn't consider it a relief to get a chance to clean himself up in whatever cheap dingy motel room he'd managed scrounge out. Ones frequently plagued with miscellaneous fluid stains, or roach infested carpets, or mattress that reeked of urine, or dead rats that clogged up the shower drain. He shouldn't have to risk his life dealing with drug lords, loan sharks, gangsters, and thugs, just trying to earn enough money to buy back his family's acceptance. He wasn't _supposed_ to be left behind.

No, no, no. He should be out on the open sea right now. He should be enjoying the cool salty breeze sweeping through his lungs and hair. He should be chilled by the spray of the ocean waves crashing like pinpricks upon his skin. He should be on hot sandy beaches, with hot sandy babes, watching breathtaking sunsets while gulls cried far above him. He should be sailing around the world in the Stan'O War, _visiting_ places like Egypt, or Australia, or Japan, or Brazil, or England, instead of fleeing to or from those locations. He should be hunting for treasure like gold, or long lost manuscripts, or ancient artifacts, like he was some kind of famous adventurer. And _most importantly_ , he should be doing all of this with the person he cared about more than anyone else in the entire world, right by his side.

He didn't care how stupid his dream was. He didn't care how childish, unrealistic, or unfeasible it was. It was all that he'd wanted ever since he was a little kid able to grasp the concept of hoping for a better tomorrow; and without ever really getting the chance to test it out the way he'd wanted to, he couldn't let it go.

If _he_ had been with Stanley it could have worked. It _would_ have worked.

"YOU STUPID JERK!" Stan's head struck the taillight again, and his nose cracked and bent under the force of his blow. He thought he might have also heard the sound of plastic snapping over the pounding of his won pulse in his ears.

"YOU STUPID, STUPID, SELFISH JERK!" And again.

"YOU LEFT ME BEHIND! YOU PROMISED THAT YOU WOULDN'T LEAVE ME BEHIND!" Tears of hot, bitter rage blurred his vision and streaked down the mess of blood and cuts that now marred his face. His voice was raw with hate and thick with misery. He hit it again.

"YOU." And again.

"RUINED." And again.

"MY." And again.

"LIFE!" After a final heave, the taillight of the car popped out, stunning Stan with the sudden influx of brilliant, blinding sunlight and hot fresh air. It also exposed the thick bundle of insulated wiring that gave the taillight its power. It took Stan a moment or two to calm down and gather his wits enough to piece together exactly what this meant; but when he finally did, he was absolutely ecstatic.

"Ha! Yes, yes!" Stan cheered as he quickly jerked his head back into the hot, dry, darkness that dominated the rest of his immediate surroundings. Perfect. Now he had something he actually could work with.

Stan lunged at the exposed wires; biting down on them as hard as he could, before stripping them bare with his teeth. The razor-sharp pointed metal strands tore at his gums, lips, tongue, and the insides of his cheeks, till they were a pulsing, fleshy, bleeding mess. He chewed and gnawed with the primal fury of a dog trying to bite off its own limb to free itself from a trap. He ground his teeth down till the nerves screamed under the pressure of his bite force, and the enamel chipped and cracked. Till the back of his dry throat was completely coated in the frothy mixture of spit, and the warm tang of iron.

After a few minutes of struggling he managed to successfully tear a piece off, and as he lay there with the strip of frayed, twisted wires clamped firmly in his mouth, he suddenly felt more accomplished than he ever had in the past seven years.

See, he didn't need _him_. He didn't need _him_ at all. He didn't need anyone. This was what he was going to use to get himself out of there, and he had gotten it all by himself. He had earned it, had paid for it at the expense of his face, mouth, and a minimal chunk of his sanity. He was going to chew his way out of the trunk of a car, how many other people could say that they'd done something like that, huh? Stan bet _he_ certainly hadn't.

"Poindexter's probably sitting in a nice cozy house somewhere," Stan muttered more than a little bitterly to himself, "eating three square meals a day; studying, n' researching, n' taking notes, n' doin' other dumb nerd things." Yeah, someone as cushy and soft as _him_ probably couldn't have gotten out of a situation like this. But Stan was going to. He could get himself out of this mess just fine on his own.

Of course, it was still a bit too soon for him to celebrate. He wasn't done yet. While Stan could easily use the wires to pick himself free from the cuffs and chains, even from behind, he would need at least one of his hands free to do it.

Now that he was able to think a little more clearly, the answer came to him.

Oh, boy. This was going to hurt like hell. Luckily he already had something to bite down on.

Taking a deep hissing breath through his clenched teeth, Stan firmly grabbed the thumb on his right hand. He couldn't help but briefly hesitate while his insides started twisting and squirming around uncomfortably at the thought of what he was about to do. Stan quashed the fear as best he could. There wasn't any better way to do this, and he knew it.

The thumb was quickly jerked back with a sharp and brutal pressure. Stan gasped and gave a startled cry, which then shifted into a hoarse groan.

He hadn't been as prepared for the incoming torment as he'd thought, and it cost him dearly. His thumb was only halfway out of the socket, stuck at the point where the sudden influx of pain had startled him into stopping. Hot heavy breath forced its way through his nose for a few moments, and his left side stung with each large intake of air. His right hand twitched and curled in agony behind him.

But there was no helping it. He had to try again. He had to do this, or he really would die in this stuffy, blazing oven of a car trunk.

There was no deep breath before the plunge this time. Stan didn't want to risk giving himself the chance to think about the action he was going to take, or the very painful consequences. He gingerly grabbed the base of his thumb again, wincing as even that light touch sent splinters of pain arching up and down his wrist, and yanked even harder than he had previously. A small a twisting motion was added to the mix this time, just to be safe.

The thumb was completely forced out of place with a loud, nauseating, pop, and by making his right hand as small and slim as possible, Stan was able to wiggle, pull, and then finally slip the cuff all the way off.

He'd done it! He now had full… well ok maybe not so full considering the state of his thumb, but he had reasonable use of one of his hands. And that would be enough.

Stan lay there congratulating himself for a few moments, delirious with pain, heat and floating ecstasy of his accomplishment. The tenderness of his hand already seemed to be fading away. Now that he had a real means of escape, he could focus on that instead.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's note: Hmm. This chapter's a bit clunky for my taste, but I couldn't really think of a better way to cut it. By the way, a big thank you to everyone who's reviewed. You guys have all been super encouraging and I really appreciate everything you have to say.

* * *

Chapter 4

Perseverance is not a long race; it is many short races one after the other. - Walter Elliot

* * *

Stan debated with himself for a little while about how he was going to carry out the rest of his escape. On the one hand, he could start off by picking at the cuffs still attached to his left wrist thereby giving him early access to both hands (one of which did not have a dislocated thumb), and making the task of untangling his legs infinitely easier. On the other hand, he could try and forgo picking the cuffs entirely and instead _only_ focus on undoing the lock that was currently keeping his legs chained up. By loosening the chains first and then slipping the cuffs free from them afterward, he could leave the handcuffs on without having to waste any time picking them at all. Removing them fully could certainly wait till he wasn't stuck in the car anymore and his life wasn't in immediate, mortal danger.

The later appeared to be the better option but unfortunately for Stan the lock appeared to be all the way down by his knees, the point which was currently farthest away from his head. He couldn't get to it without having at least one arm underneath him to prop himself up, and that arm couldn't be the same as the one he was going to use to reach down and pick the lock.

"Boy, Jorge and his goons _really_ didn't want me getting out of this one alive, did they."

Stan let out a frustrated sigh. His previous burst of adrenalin was already wearing off, and the heat was starting to get to him again. It was more than a little worrying that he wasn't really sweating all that much anymore despite the fact that the temperature in the trunk had only gotten worse and worse as the minutes ticked by. Apparently he had already lost too much water to continue doing that effectively. In fact, if it wasn't for the small trickle of blood from his torn up mouth currently pooling in his throat, he didn't think he would've had enough liquid there to even swallow properly.

To put it simply, he was really hot, he was really thirsty, and he wanted out of this personal hell as quickly as possible.

But there was really no way to get around it. He was going to have to undo his other arm first.

Using his right hand, Stan bent, shaped, and mutilated the wires around until they became a somewhat more effective picking tool. It was hardly an easy feat seeing as he couldn't exactly count on his ever so helpful opposable thumb to aid him, but his teeth managed as a decent substitute, and it wasn't long before he produced something that would be capable of getting the job done. It wasn't the perfect picking tool by any stretch of the imagination, but it didn't need to be. His own skill could make up for any deficiencies in that area. Hopefully.

Being in trouble with the law as often as he was, Stan had an almost absurd amount of experience getting out of handcuffs. As such, it wasn't completely unreasonable for him to assume that the task of picking these ones would be fairly easy, regardless of his present circumstances. As was the case for most things in Stan's life, however, the task ended up being quite difficult and took a lot longer than he'd really wanted it to.

Stan lay there quietly for several long, drawn out minutes (Well, quietly save for the occasional curse muttered in impatient frustration). His eyes were closed in concentration. His ears, completely tuned in to the soft clicks emanating from the locking mechanism behind him. He tried to make it so there was nothing else in his mind save for his hands, the tumblers in the lock, and the small cluster of carefully shaped wires that moved as delicately and precisely as possible between the two. There was no feverish heat, no sharp mutilated pain in his face, mouth, thumb, and side. No pounding in his head, and no aching in his throat. There were just the thin metal strands rolling around amidst the tips of his fingers, and the hot, thick metal circle that bound his wrist.

But Stan wasn't good at concentrating for long periods of time, and it was taking too long. It was taking _way too long_. He wanted out now!

He was so thirsty….. If only he could wet his mouth just a little bit. Just a small mouthful of water, that was all he really needed. Stan was sure that there had to be a water bottle _somewhere_ in whosever's car this was. Maybe… maybe he could find it once he got out of the trunk. It wouldn't matter if it were hot, or old, or nasty tasting, he would drink the whole thing without hesitation or complaint. He would gulp it down like it was a breath of fresh air to a man choking and spluttering in suffocation. He could let it sooth the cracking dryness of his sore tongue and burning throat.

Wouldn't that be nice. Wouldn't that be so, so nice.

Stan's fingers stopped moving. His mind began to wander to a far off place. A place where an ice-cold glass of water sat alone on a bar counter. A drop of condensation seductively slipping down its side and pooling onto the varnished wood below. The pool of water was all around him, wrapping every inch of his body in blissful refreshing coolness. The waves of the water lapped gently against his face. There was the muted rumbling of a waterfall cascading off in the distance; its chilled mist hovering in the air for a few moments, before descending lightly onto his skin and sending a thrill of goose bumps rushing up and down his arms. It was cloudy outside. A biting wind was blowing and twisting the steam rising off the beach into delicate, spiderweb thin, wisps. Raindrops pelted against the surface of the rolling ocean waves. He was staring out at the sea. They both were. It was quiet.

Stan's eyes snapped opened his eyes with a start. He panted heavily for a few seconds, blinking sluggishly, and then ran a dry tongue over his cracked, bleeding lips.

He had to get out of there. Quickly.

Stan did finally manage to get the cuffs off, but by the time he was through, it had felt as though it had taken hours to do so. Every single second that he'd spent focused on it, every minute with his attention completely and utterly centered on the task, had been agonizingly slow and full of mistakes. It was probably the longest time it had ever taken him to get out of a pair handcuffs, and that was including the times that he'd first been learning this particular skill.

But it had been worth it. Even if he didn't make it out of this alive, the sheer relief he'd felt at getting a chance to stretch out his cramped shoulders and legs alone (though admittedly the confined quarters didn't offer a whole lot to room to stretch out in), made it well worth the struggle. Not to mention the immense satisfaction he'd received upon bringing both of his arms out in front of him to rub at his chafed, scabbing wrists.

The sensation, in fact, had been so nice, and so comforting, that he'd nearly fallen asleep right after he'd finished the job. Fortunately, Stan now had his newly freed, non-dislocated, left hand to help slap himself awake (and boy did that slapping really smart with his face being as banged up as it was).

He couldn't afford stop now. He was almost free.

To Stan's great consolation (and surprise considering how his luck had been fairing thus far), the lock holding the chains around his legs came off with much less difficulty than the cuffs had. Now that the bonds holding his feet and hands were no longer tangled up in each other behind him, he was able to bring his knees up close to his face, and actually get a good look at what it was that he was doing. And really, that made all the difference in the world. With the added bonus of sight on his side, and a renewed encouragement adding to his determination, dealing with the lock ended up taking only a few minutes compared to the relative hours that he'd felt the cuffs must've taken, and he was done with it long before he had the presence of mind to start doubting himself again.

"Yes. There we go, there we go." Stan let out a relieved breath, as the chains binding him were yanked and kicked off to the far corner of the trunk. Getting a chance to rotate and stretch his sore ankles was a balm, one that he hadn't quite realized how badly he'd missed till now. There was just one last big hurdle to deal with. One last obstacle to overcome before he'd finally reach the finish line and get out of this dumb mess. He could almost taste the nasty plastic of the hot bottled water.

It was time to take care of the car trunk; the vessel that Jorge had intended to be Stan's coffin.

Stan considered the problem for a moment, and concluded that there was no way he was going to be able to kick the trunk open, or use any similar impact based methods of forcing it. The metal body surrounding him looked pretty heavy duty, for one thing, and while the area he was confined in had a decent legnth, it was so flat that he could barely roll over without scraping his elbows on the floor or roof. Even if he could manage to angle himself into a position where he'd be able to hit some strategic point near the latch or hinges, it wasn't likely to have very much oomph behind it. Defiantly not enough to pop the trunk open, it seemed.

Courtesy of Stan's violent head-butting earlier, however, forcing it open wasn't the only option that was currently available to him. There was now a hole in the trunk, one that had formerly been the home of a taillight, and thankfully it appeared to be just big enough for one of his arms to fit through. If Stan could maneuver that arm around to the lock on the outside of the car trunk, he might just be able to pick his way out of there like he had for the cuffs and chains.

Yes, Stan thought to himself. This was doable. He could manage this. He was going to get out of there.

"Ha, betcha didn't think I'd use my head to get out of this one, didja Jorge. DIDJA STANFORD! Used it physically and mentally. Bet neither of ya thought I was gonna make it out of here at all. Huh! Just goes to show ya, you should never underestimate Stan Pines!" He gave a small cackle after that. The boast ended up sounding a lot more gasping, tired, and hoarse, then Stan would have liked it to, but it did a lot to raise his spirits nonetheless. He could hardly keep the cocky grin off from his face, even though the smile was stretching the cuts on his lips and cheeks.

After fixing his makeshift pick to try and undo the damages it had incurred on its previous mission, Stan inched himself over to the punched out taillight, and stuck his arm out all the way to his shoulder. The limb was bent around toward where he estimated the lock must be, and he started gently running his fingers over the scorching metal surface to feel out its exact location.

"Ha, there you are," He murmured, shifting his picking tool up to rest between his thumb and index finger. He was just about to stick it into the lock but then paused abruptly. A sudden, dawning realization came upon him like an avalanche coming upon a couple of unsuspecting skiers, and it was enough to nearly knock his breath away. He ran his other fingers over the lock for a second time.

"Oh no. Oh no, no, no!" In his eagerness to get out, Stan had made a crucial error. He'd formed his plan on the basis that the locking mechanism of the trunk would be similar to that of the cuffs and chains that had bound him previously. It had completely slipped his mind that the two were, in fact, entirely different beasts.

Car locks, along with many other tumbler based locks, possessed a small metal plug that was constantly pushing outwards. While the makeshift pick Stan was currently using had been appropriate for the jobs he'd needed it to do before, it wouldn't be able to push back against the especially durable spring-loaded car plug in the slightest. It was just too flimsy. He was going to need two tools now, one stiff enough to provide the torque necessary to hold and turn the plug, and the other to do the actual picking.

This was going to be a problem.

Not only was Stan unable to fit another arm out of the taillight, meaning that he would somehow have to find a way of juggling both tasks with one hand, but the second tool he needed would have to be both strong enough to hold back the plug, and yet slim enough to fit deeply into the lock. The miserable frayed wires that still remained from his earlier chewing spree weren't going to do him any good. After all, they were the same material as his current pick. But then, what else was he supposed to use?

Stan took a deep calming breath, attempting to ruthlessly squash the small seed of panicked doubt that was trying to take root in the back of his mind again. He could still get out of this. He could still figure a way out of this. He just had to keep his head on straight.

Right, no problem.

Ok, so the wires weren't going to be an option, but what else was in the trunk with him? The lock, the chains, the cuffs….. that… that was it really. None of those would do. They were all far too big to fit into the small keyhole. Ok. Ok so what about on his person? Surely he had to have something on his person that was capable of holding the plug back. Tips of his shoelaces? No, no they were too thick. Nothing in his pockets except for a gum wrapper and some lint. Not even any spare change. Wait, he'd had a lighter on him earlier, hadn't he? What had happened to that? Probably something he'd lost in the scuffle, but... well, it didn't really matter. It wouldn't have been very useful right now anyways. The buttons on his shirt were too thick and short, as was the zipper on his pants. There… there had to be something else.

Stan thought about it for another few minutes. The cuffs were really the only items that fit into the 'maybe' category while all the other potential picking assistants were pretty definitively in the 'no way in hell' category. Stan's previous mistreatment of them proved that they were more than sturdy enough. If he were to use the pointy tips on the end of the open cuffs, they might just be thin enough as well. He didn't really have a better option at the moment anyways.

Stan brought his arm back into the car to make the transfer, and the small chain that linked the cuffs rattled loudly between his slightly trembling fingers. If this didn't work… No, he wasn't going to let himself think that way.

He took a few seconds to reposition both the pick and the cuffs in his hands, before reaching his arm back out through the former taillight. His fingers once again brushed up against the small metal knot of weights and springs that stood as a gatekeeper between him and his freedom. Stan brought up the tip of the cuffs to rest gently on the metal plug within the keyhole and took a moment to focus his mind, carefully gathering his strength. Then he pressed down hard. He jammed it in as deeply, and as viciously as he could. As far back as the tip was able to go.

But it didn't go as far as he'd needed it to. It went in only about half way and then got stuck. It was just too thick. Stan let out a frustrated string of curses that slowly devolved into the sort of begging, lucky chanting, that he used whenever he was gambling and losing badly. He curled his hand into a fist and pounded at the cuff, desperately trying to wedge it in even further. But it just wasn't budging. He would have to make do with it as it was.

Stan knew by this point that this wasn't going to work. That little voice in the back of his head, the practical one that told him not to do stupid things, the one that he constantly ignored, the one that sounded suspiciously like _him_ , was now telling Stan that it wasn't going to work. Stan did the usual and ignored it.

Taking a shaky breath, he started applying pressure to the first set of tumblers. Step by step, setback after setback, grueling millimeter by grueling millimeter, Stan began to make some progress. He picked. He listened. He tapped the pins. He jammed the cuffs in and out. And he managed to make it all the way to the fourth pin before the plug just couldn't be pushed back any further. He made numerous attempts at pushing it back anyways, too many to count, but in the end it didn't make any difference. He couldn't pick the lock any further, and no amount of forcing the tip of the cuffs into the keyhole was going to change that.

Stan let both the cuffs and the pick slide out of his loose fingers, and clatter to the dusty desert ground below.

What now?

He stared blankly at the roof of the trunk for a good long while, waiting for an idea to come to him. Waiting. Waiting. Everything hurt. Everything from the back of his head, all the way to the tips of his toes, was sore or aching or hurting in some manner. Especially the left side of his stomach. He was burned out, physically, mentally, and emotionally. He was hot, He was thirsty. He was tired. He was very, very tired.

A thick, soft, warm wall of fog began slipping in and out of his thoughts, muting and smothering them. It was silent and seamless, like a weightless phantom gliding throughout the decaying rooms of his mind. The arm that was still sticking outside of the car trunk dangled limply below. His eyelids were heavy. Everything was heavy. Heavy, and muffled, and washed-out. Stan blinked slowly. Then he blinked again. And again. Each time his eyes stayed closed a little longer than they had previously.

'There had to be a way out.'

'There was no way out. '

'He could figure this out.'

'He couldn't.'

'He was going to make it; he was going to make it out of there alive. He had to.'

'He was trapped; he was going to die in there.'

'But he was so close, he was almost there. He was so close. He'd tried so hard.'

'Close didn't matter. Trying didn't matter. It never had. Results mattered.'

 _'_ No, but… Stanford. What about him? He hadn't…. things between them were still…. they were supposed to… He had planned this out. He had it all planned out. Eventually, they were supposed to…'

'Stanford hadn't contacted him in over seven years. He didn't care. He never had. He was doing just fine without Stanley. He didn't need him. He didn't want him. No one wanted him. He was a liar, a cheat, a no-good parasite. The world was probably better off without him.'

'Maybe…. maybe he could…'

'...'

'Did…. did he even have his own dream anymore? Did he have any goals for the future that didn't revolve around fixing his own past mistakes? Was that really all his life had become?'

'...'

'He wasn't actually leaving all that much behind, was he.'

'…'

'No…. No it didn't really matter. Nothing really mattered.'

'…'

'…'

'….'


	5. Chapter 5

Author's note: Something to keep in mind when reading this chapter is that all of Ford's characterization is purely from Stanley's perspective. While most of it is pretty accurate, not all of it is. Poor Stanley doesn't understand his brother quite as well as he thinks he does.

* * *

Chapter 5

Things don't go wrong and break your heart so you can become bitter and give up.

They happen to break you down and build you up so you can be all that you were intended to be. - Charles Jones

* * *

He was trapped, surrounded on all sides by a thick covering of formless white fog. There was no temperature and no sound. Not even his breathing or the beat of his own heart made a noise in the endless, timeless, silence. He didn't move. He couldn't think. It was as though he had been put on pause; trapped in a moment without any recollection as to how he'd gotten there, or any guess as to what might happen once he got out. If he got out.

Then suddenly, there was a sound. A familiar voice called out to him in the distance, shattering the stifling silence with a reminder of his name. The fog seemed to go on the defensive, pressing in tighter and tighter, a little more reluctant to go. It clung in curling wisps around his head and shoulders, trying to block everything and everyone else out. But the source of the noise was getting closer, and as it did, it kicked up a mighty gust of chilling wind. One that completely dispelled the murkiness in a surprised gasp.

"Hey! Hey, over here!" Stanley turned to see his brother sprinting at lightning speed down the length of the beach, his backpack swinging wildly behind him, and a flurry of glimmering sand being kicked up in his wake.

Stanley cupped his hands over his mouth to shout at the approaching figure, "Took ya long enough sixer. What's with the holdup?"

Stanford skidded to a halt right before reaching Stanley, nearly crashing into him, and spraying a fair amount of sand all over his shoes and ankles. He held up his finger to indicate that he needed a moment, and then put his hands on his knees and started trying catch his breath.

"Sorr- sorry about that. Teach-" Stanford gulped down a few more panting breaths before standing up fully and continuing, "I got something from our teacher, Mr. Castillo. He wanted me to stay behind after class to give me this that way the other kids wouldn't see and get upset. You know, so he wouldn't get in trouble for playing favorites and all. Check it out!" Stanford reached into his backpack and produced a large metal compass from within. It was old and cased in a dirty brass that Stanley had often seen worn by the antiques that passed in and out of their family's small pawn shop. As Stanford rotated the trinket in his hands, which it was almost slightly bigger than, Stanley caught sight of a number of odd marking and symbols that were scratched onto the back.

"Whoa!"

"I know, it's so cool isn't it!" Stanford was nearly bouncing with excitement. "I wonder if it used to belong to an old seafaring captain who slowly went crazy. Or a grave robber who wrote the inscriptions on the back to protect himself from vengeful spirits. Or maybe even an explorer who was using a secret code to record the location of buried treasure!"

"Why'd he give it to ya anyway?"

"Huh?"

"Our teach"

"Oh." Stanford paused a little awkwardly and then shot Stanley an oddly apologetic look, "Well, it's supposed to be a late birthday present. Mr. Castillo brought it back from the trip he took to Oregon over the summer after he found it washed up on the beach. He said he thought I would like it since, uh- you know, since I kind of went twelve pages over the limit on our report about 'Portuguese navigation and exploration' last month." Stanford glanced sideways at this and rubbed the back of his neck; a little embarrassed, but obviously not the least bit ashamed of his overachievement.

Stanley let his eyes fall from his brother's face, and down to the compass being cradled in his hands. A small frown tugged at the corners of his mouth.

It wasn't that he was jealous of Stanford or anything. He was happy that his brother had once again been rewarded for his genius, of course he was. As proud as Ford could be of his own brains, Stanley often had a tendency to be even prouder.

In fact, whenever Stanford was either awarded for his grades, or received a perfect score on a test he'd taken, or was acknowledged for whatever his latest academic achievement had been, it was _Stanley_ who would go out and start bragging about it to whoever was within earshot.

'Hey, Hey! Mrs. Peterson, Mr. Peterson, check out this big shiny metal my brother just got! Aw don't listen to him, he's just bein' humble about it. Yeah, he got first place for the rocket-y thingy you guys saw us carrying to school last week.'

'What's the matter Crampelter? Ya mad 'cause my brother won first place in the spelling bee, meanwhile the only thing you'd ever win first place in, is a big, dumb, and ugly contest. What'd you just say!? I dare you. I dare you to say that again! Ah, Ford let go of me, I need to teach this jerk a lesson!'

'Hey you! Yeah, you. Creepy neighbor who mom says we're not supposed to talk to cause you probably have ties with the mob or somethin'. Guess who just got the best grades in our entire elementary school? That's right, this guy right here! Ow, Ford. Ah come on, he's not _that_ scary. He even showed me how to cheat at dice once.'

Stanford for his part would always act as though he were annoyed whenever Stanley pulled something like this. He would tell Stanley to knock it off, or to stop being so embarrassing, or to stop gloating so much about his 'trivial' achievements. However, the small light that would always spring up into his eyes shortly after the two began walking away, and the blushing grin that would stretch from ear to ear, made his true feelings on the matter glaringly obvious.

That grin was what Stanley lived for. He liked it more than he liked adventuring, or toffee peanuts, or even that one time he'd successfully broken Crampelter's nose after the bully had smashed the lenses of his glasses.

Whenever he saw it, it was like something just sparked inside of him; something that made him want to sprint as fast as he could, and jump up and down, and yell at someone five times his size. A raw, wild, untamable energy would surge through every limb and make him feel completely unstoppable. Like any goal that the two of them set their minds to was achievable. Like nothing in the universe could possibly tell them no, or stand in their way.

Even if the whole world were set against him, Stanley would always have Stanford. And he really didn't want or need anything else.

But still…. there was something about this that slightly bothered him. Something about their teacher _only_ pulling Stanford aside, rather than both of them. A pattern was beginning to develop, and it seemed to be growing more and more prominent with each passing day.

Even if Ford had done most of the writing in the report (Well ok, nearly _all_ of the writing), it wasn't like Stanley hadn't contributed _anything_ to their joint project. He had worked hard on those maps, spending about as much time illustrating the journey of the Portuguese explorers, as Stanford had writing about them. So then, why had Mr. Castillo presented the compass to Stanford alone? It had been Stanley's birthday too, after all.

Something tightened uncomfortably in Stanley's chest at that thought and he quickly tried to brush it aside.

So what if their teacher had only presented the compass to Stanford, it wasn't like that really mattered. He'd probably meant for it to be for both of them anyways. Right?

They were twins. Everyone knew that they always shared everything.

Not really wanting to think on the matter any further, Stanley decided to distract himself with one of his favorite pastimes. The frown on his face was almost instantly replaced by a teasing smirk, and he put his hands on his hips in what he thought to be a fairly good impression of their mother whenever the two of them had done something especially exasperating. He let out a loud dramatic sigh, "Yeesh Ford, what're we gonna do with you! You've transformed from a mega nerd into a full blown teachers pet."

Stanford, who had been busy with his own musings about the markings on the back of the compass, gave a sudden undignified squeak at the remark, "What! I am not a teachers pet."

"Yeah, ya are."

"Am not."

"Are too."

"Am not."

"Are too."

"No, I'm not!" At the tail end of this protest Stanley quickly scooted behind Stanford, grabbed his elbows, and began slowly shuffling forward.

"Choo choo! All aboard the nerd train! Next stop Geektopia, so poindexter here can pick out a present for his new favorite teacher!" The two of them only managed to make it a few feet before both lost their balance, tripped over each other, and collapsed into a pile of twisted limbs and giggles in the warm sand below.

"You know,….." Stanford returned between laughs after brushing sand off from his sleeves and righting himself somewhat; a teasing smirk of his own plastered on his face " a thank you gift wouldn't actually be a half bad idea."

"Uh, oh. Looks like your condition's more severe than I first thought it was. But all right, I'll humor you. How exactly does the family genius figure we'd get the money to pay for something like that?"

Stanford put a hand on his chin and gave a smile that he'd probably intended to come across as thoughtful and innocent, but ended up looking a lot more mischievous. "Who said anything about paying for it? I was thinking we could use your skill of 'acquiring' certain items, to help us out here."

Stanley's mouth hung open in mock astonishment as he put a hand theatrically over his heart. Of course, even though Stanford would be the first to chicken out and try to talk his brother out of any 'five finger discounts' whenever Stanley got serious about them, he would always talk a big game when the two were just playing around. "Sixer! You aren't implying that we should steal somethin', are ya? You know, people always assume _I'm_ the bad egg out of the two of us. What d'ya think they'd do if they knew who the _real_ criminal mastermind actually was!"

Stanford responded by giving a pretty spot-on imitation of maniacal, mad-scientist laughter, holding his hands in a raised clawing motion for dramatic effect. Stanley joined in soon afterward, and it only took a few moments of this for the pair to dissolve into another round of helpless giggling.

After allowing himself a chance to catch his breath, Stanley moved to stand up and grabbed the compass that had been accidentally dropped in the sand while the twins were fooling around. Stanford got up too, and the duo began to make their way towards the half-finished hull of the Stan O' War that was sitting by the docks in the distance.

"I was thinking that we could put the compass on top of the bow, or maybe attach it to the mast if you think it would be easier to see it that way. Not that the placement is going to matter too much, seeing as a compass as old as this one isn't going to be a very reliable navigational tool anyways. Hey, speaking of which, did you know that magnetic compasses don't accurately point to Earth's true north. The needle's actually angled because there's a different magnetic variation for..."

Stanley started to tune out by this point. While his brother's ramblings usually started off kind of interesting, it didn't really take long for them to devolve into a mess of scientific and technical jargon, and Stanley just didn't have the attention span to put up with that. Instead he fell a few steps behind Stanford, so his brother wouldn't notice his lack of attentive listening, and decided to take a closer look at the compass that was currently resting in his cupped hands. Particularly the drawings etched onto the back.

Being the twin brother of someone who was practically obsessed with paranormal conspiracies and supernatural weirdness, Stanley had more than his fair share of exposure to strange and unusual symbols. While the characters on the compass didn't really look like anything he'd ever seen in one of Stanford's many, many books on the subject, he couldn't help but feel as though they were familiar somehow. At first glance they had seemed like a kind of foreign writing, but now that he'd gotten a chance to inspect them a bit more closely, he thought they looked a lot more like a series of little pictures. Were they supposed to be constellations, perhaps?

He turned the compass over in his hands again, hoping to find something on the front that might provide him with a clue about the meaning of the odd markings; but what he saw instead almost brought him to a complete standstill. The needle was moving.

It wasn't the usual twitching, jerky movements of a magnetized splinter of metal trying to find the proper poles. No. This was a slow, deliberate turning.

Worried that the instrument had somehow gotten damaged while he and his brother had been playing, Stanley shook it a little and then started rotating it clockwise so as to try and counter the leftward spinning. His efforts were useless. The needle just kept steadily crawling along, completely undeterred by his attempts to 'fix' it.

Eventually it stopped; but when it did, it wasn't pointing northward like compasses were supposed to. Instead, it was pointed directly in front of him, at Stanford's back, at their ship in the distance, and at the titanic expanse blue ocean stretching out to the horizon.

Stanley raised a puzzled eyebrow and cut his brother off mid-sentence. "Uh- Ford, I think your compass is broken or something."

"What?" Stanford whirled around in a half panic and snatched the compass out of Stanley's hands to examine it more closely. "No, it can't be. Not already, I just got it! Wait, where did you say it was broken at? Did something fall off?"

To Stanley's increased bewilderment, however, as soon as the compass passed into his brother's hands the needle once again fixed itself to the north. It was as if it had never moved in the first place. "Huh? I thought… I uh… um… never mind. It musta just been my eyes fooling me. Sorry about that."

Stanford let out a relieved breath followed by a nervous chuckle. "Yeesh. You nearly gave me a heart attack, you knucklehead. If we had broken this already, I would have felt so terrible. I don't think I would have been able to look Mr. Castillo in the eyes ever again."

"Yeah…."

At the mention of their teacher's name, the same uneasy feeling of insecurity that had plagued Stanley earlier began to creep up again from the depths of his mind. On any other day, he wouldn't have hesitated to take Stanford's comment as another opportunity to poke fun at his brother and his habit of 'sucking up' to authority, but right now…..? The time he'd spent waiting alone on the beach earlier had left him unusually pensive, and troubled. It had allowed a tall, grim phantom of fear the chance to dig its claws deeply into his shoulders, and despite his best efforts, he just couldn't shake it off. He could feel its gaze bearing down on him, silently judging every move he made and every word he spoke with a nauseating foreboding. It whispered in his ear. It reminded him of just how badly he hated being shut out, of the way his heart raced at the thought of being left behind.

It didn't _really_ matter, did it? So what if people often found Stanford to be a lot more likable than him. So what if he was their teacher's favorite, or their parents' favorite. So what if he got awarded and acknowledged all the time while Stanley always got passed over and ignored. None of that really mattered. Because in the end he was Stanford's favorite, and Stanley found all the fulfillment he needed in that simple fact.

Stanford didn't overlook him, didn't ignore him, didn't belittle him, or act apathetically towards his hard work and accomplishments. He listened, he cared, he understood; and one day, one day he and Stanley were going to sail far away from this place, and leave all _the rest_ of these losers and jerks behind.

They had the same goal and the same dream. The same promise. Their compasses were both pointing in the same direction.

Stanley was sure of this.

…..

When Stanley opened his mouth to speak again, his voice took on a tone of quiet thoughtfulness; one that no one apart from Stanford ever really got the chance to hear from him. " Hey, Ford. You know that story the two of us were reading the other day? The one where that old sea witch gave the king of the pirates a magic compass, and it would always point to wherever the nearest pile of treasure was."

"Hmm, yeah what about it? Are you thinking maybe the markings on the back mean that this compass is actually cursed like the one in the story or something?" Stanford's eyes took on a sudden ecstatic glint. "I was thinking the exact same thing. Wouldn't that be such a spectacular find! Can you imagine having something that always pointed to whatever it was you wanted the most? We could find all the hidden treasures of the world with something like that!"

"Yeah… but." Stanley paused again. Did he really need to ask this question? Stanford's answer was going to be the same as his. He _knew_ that. It was just… it was… he just wanted to be sure. That was all. " You remember how in the story it didn't always point to buried treasure. I… it's just… if it _was_ that kinda compass, where do ya think it'd point for you?"

"Huh? What do you mean?"

Stanley gave a halfhearted shrug and looked away, but didn't say anything else. Luckily, Stanford was pretty good at figuring out what Stanley was actually saying, even when he didn't really say anything at all.

"Well… I don't know." Stanford murmured. He turned his head to look wistfully out at the ocean, and his eyes took on a glassy and distant sheen. When he spoke again, it seemed to be more to himself than to Stanley, "I guess … I mean, I want to go somewhere where people will respect me. Where they'll acknowledge me, and take me seriously, and won't look down on me because of my…." Stanford's gaze drifted down to his six-fingered hands, and he fiddled with them for a moment, before folding his arms behind his back and continuing, almost in a whisper, "I'd… want it to point to a place where freaks like me didn't have to worry about fitting in."

Stanley was more than a little confused by this answer. Of course, he'd always known that his brother was a little sensitive about his six fingers, but… a place where he was acknowledged and respected? Wasn't that the case already, and by nearly everyone too? Sure there was always the occasional bully or peer who would make fun of his extra digits, but Stanley always gave those people what they deserved. Besides, most of them forgot about his fingers the moment they saw his award shelf or test scores anyways. Was that why Stanford had always worked so hard on maintaining his intelligence? Because he thought it caused people to overlook his six fingered hands? To help him feel normal? To fit in?

Well that was stupid, Stanley thought. Stanford already had a place to fit in. He didn't need to feel pressured into pleasing other people because the only person whose opinion really mattered didn't care about that at all. The only person who mattered cared about Stanford unconditionally, whether he was smart, or dumb, or a success, or a failure; even if he grew an extra head and a pair of large batwings to go with his six fingers. Neither of them needed to be anything other than themselves or to act a certain way for anyone else's approval. The two of them were a matching pair. They would always fit in together, even if they didn't fit in anywhere else.

"So then… " Stanley trailed on, trying to think of the best way to communicate this obvious truth to his surprisingly clueless brother, "you're saying that it'd point to wherever I was standing, right?"

"Hmm?"

Stanley gave a large toothy smile. "Well, I fit all those criteria ya got, don't I? I mean we're two of a kind. Wherever we go and whatever we do, we'll always fit in together. Right next to each other, that's our place."

Stanford returned the smile, but it was very slight, and it fell from his face rather quickly. He turned his head to stare out at the open sea again.

Dismayed by the lack of affirmation, or the lack of any response really, the smile on Stanley's face petered off as well. He joined his brother in looking out over the water, hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever it was that Stanford was searching for amongst the swelling brine. He saw nothing. They both watched for a long time, for what felt like forever to Stanley. Neither of them moved.

It was deathly quiet. Aside from the low whistling of the wind, there was barely a sound to be heard on the beach. Even the dull roar of the ocean and crashing waves against the rocks and sand was oddly muted. Almost silent.

Stanley wearily reached up to rub his face and was surprised when it felt rough and gritty to the touch. He pulled his hand away and blinked blearily down at the fingers now covered in small flakes of dark red. Dried blood, he noted dully. A white fog began to creep on the edge of his vision.

"Stanley, where are you?" Stanford had turned to him again, but the expression on his face was quite different than it had been before. The look of childish melancholy was completely gone now, replaced by a determined gaze and a tight serious frown. Stanford wasn't here to reminisce; he was all business.

Stanley blinked at him slowly. "What?"

"I'm trying to locate you, but I'm having trouble right now. I need you to wake up."

An overwhelming and inexplicable revulsion sprung up within Stanley, and suddenly he wanted nothing more than to get as far away from his brother as possible. "Shut up! Go away. I don't need your help."

Stanford's face softened somewhat, and he gently placed a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Stanley, you're going to die. You need to wake up, you need to live, or else I'll never be able to find you. I need you to help me find you."

Stanley was sorely tempted to try and shove his brother away but stopped himself. He really was going to die, wasn't he? Maybe that wouldn't actually be such a bad thing. Even if he did manage to escape, and that was quite a big 'if', it wasn't like anyone would be waiting there for him once he got out. Was it really worth all that effort, all that suffering, if it wasn't going to bring him any closer to what he really wanted? At least here, though it may only be for a short while, he could still pretend…..

But he couldn't, not really. Even as far back as this, their inevitable split had been apparent. The past was a closed book, written with a terrible foreshadowing that Stanley had only just now caught on his second reading. There was no real comfort to be taken from it. The future, however, was ever changing and full of promise. All Stanley had to do was have the perseverance to see it through to the end. Things would get better. The bond he and his brother shared was worth fighting for. Was worth waiting for.

Even if Stanley forever remained a skeptic in all other areas of his life, he couldn't help but be an optimist here. It was too central to who he was, bound too tightly to the core of his heart, for him to ever truly give up on it.

"The compass." he murmured, "If you're having trouble findin' me use the compass." It seemed like a ridiculous thing to say, and he couldn't help blushing a little and looking away from his brother while he'd said it, but somehow that suggestion made perfect sense to Stanley.

Apparently Stanford thought it was a ridiculous thing to say too if the puzzled tilt of his mouth was anything to go by, "…Ok?" His gaze lowered to the compass in his hands, seeming to take notice of it for the first time.

He looked at Stanley, then to the compass, then back to Stanley again, then back to the compass again. He opened his mouth, but seemed to think better of it, shrugged his shoulders, and then threw the compass directly at Stanley's head. Being practically at point-blank range the projectile had no trouble hitting its mark and did so with a loud, clanging thunk.

"Ahh! Ow. Ow! What the heck was that for!" Black spots swam across Stanley's vision, and his head was aching and reverberating where it had been struck. Pounding.

"Wake up! You need to wake up Stanley. I can't find you otherwise." Stanford's eyes were wide with fear, and he was starting to sound increasingly desperate. "Wake. Up. NOW!"

Stanley blinked again sluggishly, and the bright landscape of Glass Shard Beach transformed into something dim, uniform, and metallic. Stan closed his eyes and rolled over slightly. He was just having a bad dream. A bad memory. He needed to go back to sleep.

All he wanted to do was to just go to sleep.

If he could only….

But he couldn't.

His head was pounding.


	6. Chapter 6

Author's note: My life's getting busier so chapters might be coming out a little slower from now on, though I'll still try to get at least one out a week. I think I'll probably wrap this up at around eight or nine chapters maybe? Anyways, enjoy Stanley's suffering till then. Oh, and there's a special guest making himself a bit more obvious in this chapter. I won't outright say who he is till the end of the story, but it should be pretty easy to guess ;)

* * *

Chapter 6

When you get into a tight place, and everything goes against you till it seems as if you couldn't hold on a minute longer, never give up then,

for that's just the place and time that the tide'll turn. - Harriet Beecher Stowe

* * *

Stan's head was aching. Each pulsing wave of agony in his brain was in perfect synchronization with the beating of his heart, and the steady, joined rhythm seemed to reverberate throughout every fiber of his body making all other feeling dull or muted in comparison. It hurt. It hurt a lot. The space behind his forehead might as well have been a car that was repeatedly backing up, and then slamming full throttle into the brick wall of his eye sockets; over, and over, and over again. Stan could feel every single second, and half second, and millisecond ticking by in a lethargic, stagnant torture. He just wanted it to stop. He just wanted a reprieve, just a small reprieve, that was all. How could he focus on getting out of this death trap when he was like this? When his limbs were stiff, clumsy, and weighted, nearly impossible to move?

He couldn't. He couldn't do this on his own. He needed help. Any help.

But there was no help. No one else was there. He was all alone. He was always alone nowadays.

It was enough to make Stan whimper and then start sobbing dryly.

"Help… please. Somebody, anybody….. Help me. Please….. please… please" His mouth was too dry to articulate the words properly and his voice was a croaking whisper barely even audible to his own ears. It had no chance of being heard outside the trunk of the car even if there'd been anyone out there to hear him.

What was he doing? What the hell did he think he was doing?! Since when had begging, or saying please, ever gotten him anywhere in his life. It hadn't, and it certainly wasn't going to start now. He couldn't count on anyone else to come to his aid. He hadn't been able to do that for quite a while now. He had to figure a way out of this mess _on_ _his own._ He needed to figure out what to do.

But… did he really? Stanford had said he was coming for him, hadn't he? He'd said that he was trying to locate Stanley. Maybe… all he needed to do was sit tight long enough for his brother to find him.

No, he wasn't thinking clearly. He was confusing fantasy with truth. That had just been a dream, all of that had just been a dream. And besides, the two of them had parted ways over seven years ago. How naïve did he have to be to believe that his brother would _actually_ come looking for him now? He had no way of knowing what country Stanley was in, let alone what had happened to him or what _was_ happening to him. How could he have? Not once in all this time had Stanford even bothered to check in on his twin and see how he was doing; at least not to Stanley's knowledge. Surely, if Stanford had _known_ about some of the lower points his brother had hit in his life, he wouldn't have just stood by and done nothing. He would have come to Stanley's aid. Right?

Stan's train of thought ground to a sudden halt. He'd heard something moving around on the outside of the car. Something had scraped against the metal exterior leaving a long, shrill whisper of screeching and groaning as it passed.

Had that just been the wind, or…. was… could that be? No it… no. It couldn't but… but what if it was? Something had to have made that noise, wasn't that proof enough! And he'd said he was trying to find Stanley, he had said that! Stanford wouldn't say something like that if he didn't really mean it, dream or not. Was it possible that he had somehow found Stanley already? Was he out there waiting for him, right now?

"Ford…. Ford, I'm in here. Stanford!" Tears of joy would have been leaking out Stanley's eyes if he'd had any water left in him to spare. A small, terrified smile started to stretch its way across his face. The inside of his head felt thick, but the back of it tingled in a way that made the rest of his body feel weightless and floating. His brother had come for him! He'd really come for him! He did care.

Stanley lifted a shaking hand and knocked it against the metal ceiling that rested mere inches above his face. The echoing clang trembled frailly in the darkness around him like the last low note of a sad love song. "Ford, over here….. please…. hurry."

He was hot. He was incredibly, unbearably hot. He just wanted something to drink. He wanted to be free again, and for the throbbing in his head to stop. He wanted to be out there with Stanford. He wanted to hug Stanford and hold him close, to rest his miserable aching head upon his brother's shoulders and just cry into him. He wanted to tell him how much he loved him, and how much he'd missed him for all these years. He wanted that more than anything. He'd missed him so much. He'd missed him so, so much. What was taking so long?

He waited.

But the trunk remained closed.

This didn't make sense, why wasn't it opening? Stanford was there, he was right there! Didn't he want to help Stanley get out? Why wasn't he saying anything, why wasn't he doing anything? Was he really just going to loiter around while Stanley suffered? Did he really want his brother to die in there?!

"Ford… Ford!" Stanley pressed his palms and knees to the top of the trunk and started pushing desperately against it using every last ounce of strength he had left. The roof didn't budge in the slightest. Why wasn't it moving?!

'Maybe….' A smooth voice in his mind accused, 'Maybe he couldn't lift it because it was being held down by something. Or someone.'

For a moment dream and reality blurred. The spot on Stanley's forehead where he'd been struck by the compass earlier started pounding hard again as if he'd only just been hit. Before, the pain from his injury had roused him from his sleep, and now it brought a kind of wakefulness to him for a second time. A clarity, and focus, and courage. A sudden realization.

It wasn't Stanley's own inner voice that had made that accusation, though the imitation had been pretty uncanny; and it wasn't his voice of reason, the one that tended to sound a lot like Stanford, either. No, but to his surprise he found that he still recognized it. This was the same voice from earlier, the one that had been arguing against him and pushing him to just give up right before he'd lost consciousness. The one that had convinced him of the hopelessness of his current situation, of just how much Stanford wasn't interested in seeing him again, and of how worthless and pitiful all his life's accomplishments were, and ever would be. It was the one that had given the surprised gasp as the fog had retreated at Stanford's approach in his dream.

And now it was here again, quiet, yet echoing oddly, as if it were trying to shout at him from behind a thick glass wall.

Stan didn't like it, and wasn't in a state of mind to even try to begin understanding what it was, or why he could hear it, or how he'd ever been duped into thinking that the voice belonged to him in the first place. His best guess at the moment was that he was simply losing his mind and that the voice was some kind of product of his own messed up imaginings, but even that didn't feel quite right. This thing seemed more like it was separate from him, an outside force.

Still, whatever it's origins were it had brought up a pretty valid point; and even though listing to it, taking its bait for a second time, probably wouldn't lead to anything good, Stan found that he couldn't really help himself.

After all, Stanford was right next to him, just outside the car. Stanley knew, he knew that he was there. He felt Stanford's presence all around him like he felt the heat of the sun all around him. It was like the voice had implied; if he wasn't helping his brother to get out of there, then there was really only one other thing he could be doing. Stanford must have been sitting out on the hood of the trunk, holding it down and trapping him inside.

Stanley thought he could almost hear his twin scoffing at him, at how incapable he was of getting out of there without _his_ help, of getting anywhere without _his_ help. Probably wondering idly if he'd have to help his poor stupid brother out of another bind.

Stan felt the beginnings of a white-hot inferno start to spark up in his heart, and catch fire to the breath in his lungs.

It was obvious. It was so obvious now. Why couldn't he have seen it back then!

Stanford had never cared about his opinions, had never cared about what Stanley had thought of him. He only ever cared about being everyone else's favorite. About being the perfect golden child whom everyone loved and adored because he was just so smart. He was just so important and successful. He was going to go off and make big scientific advancements that would change the world. He was going to make millions without even trying. He was just so great, and so amazing, and HE DIDN'T CARE!

He didn't care that he'd neglected the promise that the two of them had sworn to ever since they were children, ever since they'd first laid eyes upon the remains of that old ship in the hidden cave. He didn't care that he was going to abandon Stanley to a dead end job, spending the rest of his life scraping barnacles off the docks below the saltwater taffy shop while he went gallivanting off to some prestigious university on the other side of the country. He hadn't even offered any encouraging words, a ray of hope, or a helping hand for Stanley to grab onto and pull himself out of such an abysmal future. He didn't care at all that he'd had to leave Stanley in the dust to achieve this new dream of his. This dream that had seemed to suddenly spring up out of nowhere and burn all of Stanley's dreams to a pile of soft gray ashes on the ground.

If anything, he had practically jumped at the opportunity to get away from Stanley. He'd had no desire to stay by his brother's side in the slightest. And why would he? Stanley was stupid. Stanley was useless. Stanley was just a stumbling block that tripped him up and got in his way.

That was what everyone had always said, and Stanford agreed with them. He _knew_ that. He knew that Stanford agreed with them because whenever someone had said something like that about him, Stanford had never contradicted them. He had never disagreed with them, or argued with them, or told them how wrong they were. H-He hadn't…. he hadn't told their teachers, or the principal, or even their own parents just how wrong they were.

Stanley had always done that for him. Whenever someone had made fun of his extra fingers, or called him a freak….. Stanley had always made sure that they knew just how wrong they were. He had always made them pay for those comments.

Stanford never had.

Stanley had been played.

This whole time, this whole time! The person he'd thought he cared about, the one he'd thought had cared about him, had lied to him. He had just been using him to make himself look better, so everyone could see just how superior he was to the dumb twin. How much more exceptional he was than the spare. He was mocking him, probably laughing at him. Laughing at poor stupid Stanley. Poor stupid Stanley who had fallen for such an obvious trick.

He could just see Stanford's condescending sneer in his mind's eye. He was standing far up above him, looking down on him. He thought Stanley was pathetic. Gullible. Weak.

Stanley would show him just how wrong he was. He would show _him_. He would show his father. He would show everyone!

Stan was so consumed by his own distraught outrage at this point, so lost in his own inner hysteria, that he'd nearly forgotten he was locked in the trunk of a car at all. He had only the barest impression of where he was and what he was doing at the moment. A fiery hurricane of absolute and overwhelming contempt had completely overtaken his mind, and any string of rational thought, or doubt, or self-awareness was incinerated long before it ever had a chance to leave the eye of the storm. Stan felt as though he wasn't even in control of his own movements anymore. It was more like he was sitting somewhere in the back of his skull and watching someone else puppeteer the hot bloody mess of his body around. As if his consciousness was being snuffed out and smothered by a searing blanket of mindless, boiling rage.

But his consciousness and clarity of mind weren't the only things that were burning up. Whether the voice had intended this or not, it too was being devoured by the out of control blaze. Its quiet hissing drowned out by the roaring within Stan's ears. He wasn't sure if he'd just imagined it, but Stan thought he could almost feel the voice acquiescing to this; accepting its need to retreat for now, though it made sure to offer one last parting taunt on its way out.

'Good choice there kid.' It whispered to him in a tone that was becoming increasingly grating and high-pitched, completely dropping all pretenses of pretending to be part of Stan's natural thought process. ' He was never any good for you anyways, and besides, it's not like brotherly love is really going to grant you the strength you need to get out of here. Hatred on the other hand... Well that worked pretty well with the taillight, didn't it.'

"Shut up!" Stanley ground out lowly between clenched teeth. "I don't need your help." Even though he hadn't really done anything particularly strenuous yet, his breathing was already ragged and heavy. He felt as though he was fighting something off, but he wasn't quite sure what it was.

'Who says I'm here to help you.'

Utilizing the energy from his newfound anger, Stan set to work. His fingers numbly fumbled around the trunk of the car till his hands closed upon the lock that had been holding the chains together earlier. He watched his arm pull back like a snake about to strike, and then viciously jam the top of the lock into the small gap between the latches that held the trunk closed. It stuck fast on the first try, bending and warping the metal around it to accommodate its shape. Stan's body then crammed itself as far back into the corner the trunk as it would go, giving him every inch of space possible to wind up for a powerful kick; one that would hopefully force the lock even further into the gap.

Stan was just about to slam his feet down, when the muscles in his arms and legs suddenly, and without warning, froze up. He couldn't move them. At all. Something that sounded a lot like laughter echoed from somewhere far off in the distance, and yet, within his skull at the same time. Stan's heart began to race.

The stiffness held Stan in its grasp was unnatural and chilling, and he was more than a little startled by it. He didn't think it was a symptom of dehydration or heatstroke, but then what was it? A horrifying mist of despair began growing in the back of Stan's mind. It occurred to him that the blow he'd received to the back of his head last night might have done more damage than he'd initially thought, and that all his thrashing around earlier could've somehow made it worse and completely paralyzed him.

 ** _The spot where the compass had struck his forehead was pounding._**

No, that couldn't be it. Every other part of his body was just fine, just as mobile as it had been before. It was only his limbs that were immovable. It was as if his arms and legs had been tied up again. As if his wrists were still cuffed and his legs still chained together. As if all of his efforts to free himself before had merely been a hallucination or a figment of his weary tormented mind. Yes, he was hearing voices, but could he really be that far gone already? Had all of that just been a dream too?

 ** _Dream and reality were blurring._**

But that couldn't be either. His thumb was aching with its dislocation, and his nose was cracked and hurting. The skin on his face was tight with dried blood and stinging with cuts and bruises. That was real. That was all real. So his efforts must have been real too. Whatever this was, Stan wasn't going to let it stop him or hold him back. There was no way he could, not after all that he'd been through already.

 ** _Clarity. Focus. Courage. And now he added something of his own to the mix, something that was all Stanley. Determination._**

Stan grit his teeth and started twitching the muscles in his unmoving legs. As slowly and sluggishly as ice melting on a sunny winter morning they began to respond, and he let out a relieved breath. He must have just psyched himself out or something, that was all. There was absolutely nothing wrong with his limbs. He had no real reason to worry about them. No, it was just everything else he had to worry about at the moment.

Once his legs had loosened enough, Stan resumed his previous task and forced them to curl up closely next to his thudding heart. He took a few seconds to readjust himself, and then abruptly slammed his legs forward. A bang as loud as a gunshot echoed all around the trunk causing the metal frame to shutter and ring with the excess energy.

The door to the trunk remained firmly closed.

But if there were a word to describe Stan aside from hotheaded, it would have been stubborn, and he was far from ready to call it quits. He repeated the process again, and again, and again. He brought his legs to his chest _again_ , and he kicked forward with as much force as he could _again_ , and he stuck the edge of the lock with the heel of his foot _again_ , wedging it in further, and further, and further. The fire in his chest served as fuel for the rest of his body, and it pressed him forward relentlessly. Endlessly. The metal surrounding him moaned and groaned sharply as if offended by the treatment, and his legs started shaking severely with exhaustion. The lock had been almost completely embedded into the gap by this point. Only a strip of metal at the bottom, no thicker than a nickel, was sticking out anymore.

And yet, throughout it all, the trunk stayed closed.

Now came a problem even Stan's boiling-over energy couldn't solve. Realistically, he was only going to get one more shot at this. One last, good strike to bash the lock in and hopefully break the latch that held the trunk in place before it would be forced in too deeply for him to affect anymore. If he failed at this, if he screwed up, or if it just wasn't enough, then he really would have no choice but to throw in the towel and surrender to the inevitability of his death. There would be no getting the lock in any further. The latch would remain intact. There would be no getting out.

He _absolutely_ could not fail at this.

Stan's arms moved behind his head and braced themselves as solidly as a pair of rooted trees against the back of the trunk. He closed his eyes and waited while the frantic racing of his heart calmed somewhat, trying to gather every last ounce of strength left in his body for one final, concentrated assault. The muscles in his legs were drawn up so tightly with anticipation that they almost started cramping, and he was forced to release them a little for fear that they might relapse back into paralysis. He let out a breath through his nose and opened his eyes again, making sure to take careful aim at the small rectangle of metal that was glinting smugly in the darkness. Tiny particles of dust hung in the beam of sunlight that was leaking in from the busted taillight, and it angled itself in such a way that the warm splash of bright yellow was washing directly over the space between the bottom of Stan's throat and the top of his chest. He was close. He was so, so close to freedom.

With a forceful grunt, Stan threw himself full bodily at the target. His arms shoved hard against the back of the trunk at the same time that his feet smashed into the lock, and the resulting shockwave of vibration raced its way from the base of his heel to the very tip top of his fingers. It was so astoundingly violent and jarring that Stan felt as though all of his joints had been shaken loose by the impact. A terrible sound like a stifled thunderclap reverberated throughout the enclosed space, and the whole of the vehicle gave a sudden lurch in response to the assailment. Any loose debris in the trunk clattered around noisily and slid along the bottom. The lock was now completely overtaken by the metal frame of the gap.

 ** _But sometimes even determination just isn't enough._**

The trunk was still closed.

Stan let out a deep bellowing scream, one that tore down the back of his throat and dragged its barbed claws deep down into his chest. He had no idea why he'd screamed; he just knew that doing so felt good. So he screamed again, his voice petering out toward the end and twisting itself into a silent heaving laughter. His whole body was shaking.

He was losing it. Even if he hadn't been delirious with heat and pain before, he _knew_ for sure that he was losing it now. But at his point he was too far-gone to know what to do about that. Was there even anything else he could do? That was his last chance of getting out of there, his last hope, and he had failed. Just like he always failed. Stan's head lolled to the side aimlessly and his breath came out in small trembling gasps. The inferno that had taken hold of him before and focused his energy, was now a spiritless haze of smoke and embers. His thoughts were skittering wildly around in his mind like a handful of marbles dropped onto a glass table.

The voice from before seemed to sense this weakness and descended upon Stan again like a vulture on a fresh corpse, its delighted snickering rattling around cruelly in his skull. Then, it slowly began to change. It wasn't the voice that was enjoying his misfortune now, it was… Stanford.

 _Stanford_ was snickering outside. He'd been out there this whole time. He had been there throughout all of Stanley's struggles and had done absolutely nothing to help him.

"I don't need you! I. DON'T. NEED. YOU! And ya know what?! I don't WANT you either! I don't want anything to do with you. I never want to see you again! Just go away. Just go away!" Was that really him yelling? His voice had sounded almost inhuman. The words had been so incredibly choked and garbled that they were barely understandable, even to himself. Besides, Stan was pretty sure he'd only said those things in his head. Right?

The vehicle shifted slightly as Stanford adjusted his sitting position on top of the trunk outside, and he began to drum his fingers in an idle impatience across the surface of the metal.

"You think this is funny, do ya? You think I'm takin' too long to do this, huh." Stan gave in to another round of half sobbing laughter. "Well, I'd like to see ya do better. I'd like to see how long ya'd last if our positions were reversed. If I was the one out there while you were stuck in this hellhole. Or even better, if I'd been the one born with brains and luck, and you were the useless good for nothin' who couldn't do anything right!'

The sharp tapping gradually changed. It started to sound more like Stanford was trying to imitate the rhythm of a song now, one that sounded familiar to Stanley but for the life of him he couldn't place where he'd heard it before. The meaning of the tune was still perfectly clear, regardless.

Stan grit his teeth in abject fury. "Don't… don't mock me. Don't you dare mock me! Just leave me alone!" He gave the spot where he assumed Stanford to be sitting a good solid kick. "GO AWAY!"

The tapping persisted for a few more seconds then stopped abruptly. The trunk shifted again and gave a small creak as Stanford slid off its top. His feet lightly touched upon the ground below with a barely audible thump, and the noise so slight and so quiet, that Stan was almost able to convince himself that he'd just imagined it. A series of soft footfalls began ghosting over the sand, stepping in perfect time to the heavy drumming within Stan's skull. But while the pounding in his head was growing louder and louder, in an ever-rising crescendo, the footsteps were becoming fainter and fainter. Stanford was walking away. He was abandoning Stanley. Again.

"No!" Stanley wailed, his guts wrenching in agony, "No, no, no, no, no. I didn't mean it. I didn't mean it! Don't leave. Don't leave me alone again. Please, please, don't leave me alone again." The air in his lungs was wheezing out in a breathy gale, desperately struggling to get past the hot lump of despair that had nestled itself stubbornly in the back of his throat. "I… I know I said I wanted to be alone, but I lied. I was lying, ok! Please, I don't really want to be alone. Please, please, don't leave. Please!"

The footsteps didn't return. Stanley shrieked.

He flailed about desperately, as though he were a fish flopping about on dry land. His limbs smacked and smashed against the confines of the trunk with a wild, savage brutality; hard enough to tear at his dry flesh and cause deep aching bruises to blot upon his skin like globs of ink haphazardly spilled onto a white page. His back arched in the burning torment of his misery as he repeatedly thrashed, and kicked at, and flung himself against the roof of his prison. The metal frame of the trunk was banging and clanking around as if a series of fireworks had been set off inside of it.

At this point, Stan wasn't even aiming to get himself out of the car anymore. In fact, the lightheadedness of his anguished desolation had completely removed him from his current reality. Now he was only focused on finding a release for the unbearable heat and pressure that was swelling in the dark corners of his heart. He was just trying to reach Stanford before his brother left him behind forever. He wouldn't be left behind, not again! Please not again!

Stanford's back was turned to Stanley. He was walking in front of his brother with an air of unhurried ease, drifting towards the shimmering expanse of the endless sea flickering in and out of existence on the horizon. But Stanley was trapped, paralyzed. He couldn't move at all. Stanley tried calling out, but his voice couldn't be heard over the roar of the ocean. He tried screaming, but Stanford just put his six fingered hands over his ears instead of turning around or stopping. His brother was moving further and further away. He was becoming a tiny speck in the distance, one that would soon be swallowed by the blinding white light all around them and disappear forever. The needle of the heavy compass cupped in Stanley's hands was spinning around wildly, faster and faster. There was no place for it to stop. No focal point. No focus. No north.

He was sorry. He was so sorry for everything he'd ever done, for the fact that he'd ever even been born. He was sorry for every bit of pain and inconvenience he'd ever caused his brother. He was sorry that he'd ruined his chance of getting into his dream school. He was sorry he hadn't made enough money to fix things yet. He was sorry for being so incompetent, and stupid, and such a colossal, unreliable, screw up. He was sorry that he hadn't bothered to send his brother a card on their birthday because he'd been too bitter and hurt about the fact that he hadn't received one himself. He was sorry that this ever-growing rift between them was his fault. It was all his fault!

 ** _Sometimes it's as simple as just wanting something badly enough that grants the perseverance to endure insurmountable obstacles, and makes the impossible, possible._**

The trunk suddenly popped open, and Stan was forced to squint as his eyes were assaulted by intense light. It flooded over his bruised, broken body and every inch of the darkness he'd spent so long imprisoned in.

For a few moments a figure appeared within Stan's field of vision, a pitch-black silhouette haloed in blinding golden sunlight. He strained his eyes and stared up at the looming shadow, but the brief glimpse he was afforded didn't really allow him to make out any distinguishing features. He didn't need to. Stan already knew who it was.

His eyes opened wide. "Stanford?"

Then the hood of the trunk started to swing close again.


	7. Chapter 7

Author's note: All right so I just want to say that there's a slight insinuation in this chapter that everything having to do with Stanford was either a hallucination on Stanley's part, or a trick on behalf of the 'special guest', but that isn't entirely accurate. Keep in mind that Stanley isn't very observant in the state he's in, and that our 'special guest' isn't quite as omnipotent as he pretends to be. Rest assured, I do have plans for Stanford, and a lot of little clues I dropped about him are going to come into play in the 10th chapter. Yeah, 10th, not 9th. This chapter was dragging on for too long so I decided to split it up into two parts.

Oh, and to answer a question that an anonymous reviewer asked; no, I didn't plan for 'the voice' aka our special guest to make an appearance from the beginning. Actually almost everything after chapter 4 is very different than what this story was originally going to be. It was only _supposed_ to be about 10,000 words long, but somehow it's grown into this behemoth. It was also supposed to end on a very bittersweet and angry note, but I'm a sucker for happy-ish endings, and judging by the reviews so are a lot of other people, so I ended up tweaking it a little.

* * *

Chapter 7

Let me not pray to be sheltered from dangers, but to be fearless in facing them. Let me not beg for the stilling of my pain, but for the heart to conquer it. - Rabindranath Tagore

* * *

Stan's right hand shot out at the last moment to wedge itself between the descending hood of the trunk and its intended destination and the heavy metal door slammed hard onto his knuckles with a stomach-flipping crunch. Aside from giving a small grunt of annoyance he barely took any notice of it. He was far too eager to be bothered by something as trivial as a few bruised or broken fingers, nearly tripping over himself in his desire to comply with the frantic, heart-racing energy that was beating like a jackhammer throughout his aching body. The promise of freedom, and even more so his brother, had completely blinded him to any sort of pain or sense of danger that he might have otherwise experienced.

Grabbing the edge of the hood with his other hand, Stan wrenched the trunk open again as wide and as fast as he could. The force of the movement was nearly enough to strain the muscles in his stiff, sore shoulder, and it stretched the skin around the wound he'd received to his side last night in a way that would have been quite painful if he'd been self-aware enough to recognize it. At the same time his legs started scrambling underneath him with all the grace and coordination of a child first learning how to ice-skate, and Stan made a hasty, half-hearted attempt to right them before thinking 'to hell with it', and launching himself full bodily out of the hot, dark, deadly nightmare that had almost been his tomb. In his hurry he made a misstep, stumbled over the lip of the bumper with an undignified yelp, and then landed face first onto the hard desert ground below.

A cloud of dirt was kicked up by his antics, and it did a good job of blocking his view of the surrounding area, as well as coating the entirety of his person in a nice blanket of dry filth. Stan stood up quickly in an attempt to raise himself above the veil of grime and try to catch sight of where Stanford had gone off to. He choked and spluttered as he accidentally inhaled a lungful of dust on the way up and ended up toppling over into the dirt again almost immediately afterward. The ground was lurching and swaying unsteadily beneath him like the deck of a ship on rough waters, and it was making it almost impossible for him to find his balance. The bright intensity of the sun's dizzying brilliance pierced through the backs of his eyes like sharp needles into his brain, stunning him and slowing his movements. It seemed as though the elements themselves, along with all the combined events of his previous ordeal, were now truly taking their toll on him.

Stan spent the next few minutes unsuccessfully fighting off wave after wave of throat burning nausea. Even though there wasn't really anything in his stomach to throw up, not even any water, he was still reduced to panting and dry heaving; forced to curl up on the hot dusty ground just to keep the world from spinning out of control around him. Slowly the air surrounding Stan began to clear, and it was then, while hunched over and attempting not to retch his guts out, that he finally caught sight of his brother out of the corner of his eye.

Stanford was leaning up against a Joshua tree about ten yards away from the car. His arms were haphazardly spread eagle over the branches like an old forgotten scarecrow in a field of dead wheat, and his head was tilted slightly forward casting long dark shadows across his face. He was watching the spectacle Stanley was making of himself with an air of dispassion and cool detachment. Not moving a muscle to come to his aid. Remaining perfectly, eerily, still.

It was the first time Stanley had ever seen his brother in person since the night he'd been kicked out of his home more than seven years ago, and he looked just about the same as Stanley remembered, almost unnaturally so. Despite all the time that had passed, he didn't seem to have aged a day, as though he'd been pulled straight from a memory, or torn out from an often handled photograph. Of course, maybe Stanley shouldn't have been surprised to find that even the sands of time would choose to favor his already smarter and luckier brother over him, that was just the way things were, wasn't it. He was almost tempted to let himself get jealous or bitter about that, but in the end, was just too relieved by being in his brother's presence at all to really be bothered by it. No, there was something else nibbling at his pride already, something he felt to be more important.

"I didn't say I needed your help." Stan spat in between shaking breaths. He was loud enough for his voice to carry across the barren waste of sagebrush and rocks between the two, even with his forehead still pressed to the ground. "I just…. I would've done it on my own just fine. I... I just ….. I didn't want ya to leave me alone again. I didn't want ya to help me, though. I could have done it on my own"

But even if his ego had taken a bit of a blow, and despite the dismissiveness of his words, Stan really was genuinely grateful for the assistance. The fact that his brother had cared enough about him to come to his rescue at all was making it nearly impossible for him to restrain the warm smile slowly growing on his face. It didn't matter that he was hurting. It didn't matter that he was an exhausted, hot and thirsty, broken and bleeding mess because Stanford was here. With him. And the loss of the burden of loneliness, the one that he'd been dragging around like a heavy stone for all these years of exile, was comfort enough to make all other discomforts bearable. Because unlike that one, all of his other pains were merely temporary difficulties, and they would pass with time instead of grow.

Even if his life wasn't yet everything that he wanted, at this moment it was at least everything that he needed, and he had no intention of losing that progress again in some stupid fight. He would humble himself if need be. He would be patient. He would work harder. He would do anything it took to stay within the oasis of Stanford's good graces. He'd _meant_ what he'd been desperately shouting, or thinking, or whatever, earlier while flailing around in the trunk, every word of it. He truly was sorry, and he had every intention of making it up to his brother. Somehow.

Something that sounded like laughter echoed across the surrounding desert plain, loud and grating enough to make Stan's ears ring. If he'd felt light-headed and out of breath before, the sensation was only doubled now. The cackling bounced between the empty sky and the earth with a force that suggested its origin to be a creature of immense size and power, a stifling presence.

It was coming from Stanford.

"You didn't need my help to get out of there, huh. That's rich." His brother rolled and cracked his neck stiffly as if waking up from a long and uncomfortable sleep. "Is that how you always cope with being an incapable, unwanted, waste of space? Flat out denial? I guess I shouldn't be too surprised, though. That seems to be the way you deal with everything in your life that goes wrong, which is, well…" He gave a crooked smirk that stretched tightly over his features, "everything in your life."

Stan sat up a little straighter and stared at his brother with an expression of fatigued bewilderment. The voice that had come out of Stanford's mouth was undeniably his, but something about it seemed slightly off to Stanley. Maybe it was the way he spoke, or the words he chose to use. Maybe it had something to do with inflection, or the emphasis put on certain syllables that he wouldn't have normally. It was almost as if some quieter undertone were trying to wear the skin of his brothers voice to disguise itself, but couldn't help the fact that the borrowed husk wasn't quite tailored to its mannerisms. To someone who didn't know Stanford as well as Stanley did, it might have been an easy thing to miss, but…

On second thought, when was the last time he'd actually spoken with his brother besides the two aborted phone calls from when he'd hit a real rough patch six months ago? As far as he could recall, the last real, face-to-face conversation that the two had shared had been on the night that Stanley had gotten tossed to the curb, and years and years had passed since that incident. Who's to say that this wasn't just how Stanford talked now? A lot of major changes could occur to someone's life in the span of a few moments, as Stanley was well aware, let alone almost three-fourths of a decade. Even if he might have _looked_ the same, that didn't necessarily mean that Stanford was going to _be_ the same person that Stanley remembered.

The idea that his twin might now be a stranger to him instilled a deeper, more desperate, terror in Stanley than he had experienced even at his lowest points in the trunk.

"I missed you." It wasn't what he'd meant to say, but it was what had come out anyways, and Stanley found that he didn't have the heart to refute it or take it back. He decided to roll with it. "I…. I've missed you so much. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I-Thank you." He made another attempt to stand up and walk to where his brother was draped across the tree, but his legs weren't cooperating with his demands in the slightest and he fell over on his hands and knees again.

"Yeesh. You haven't listened to a word I've said, have you." Stanford's neck popped as he twisted his head to the side. He almost seemed amused by Stanley's actions, if not somewhat annoyed or pitying. "Can't say I really blame you for being kinda out of it, though. Exactly _how many_ _times_ did you smack your head around in there? If we include both the brawl with the taillight _and_ your little tantrum from a few moments ago, I think it's got to be _at least_ around twenty to twenty-five plus."

As if in response to this Stan felt the pounding in his head start to pick up even more potently, and he pushed his rough, scabbed face into his hands in an attempt to alleviate the pain. Both the front and the back of his brain were now beating in a rhythmic discord, one that filled his ears till they overflowed and dulled the world around him. It was like a thick stinging tar, miring his mind and slowing it almost to a standstill. His thoughts struggled sluggishly to try and keep up with the dry rasping of his mouth.

"How…were-. But you weren't really there before, were you? That was just my imagination earlier, but you're here now. I watched you get me out of the trunk." Stan's head gave an especially large and nauseating throb as he tried to go over the events of the past couple hours. He closed his eyes and whispered into his palm, "But… why? If you were there all that time… w-why didn't you get me out sooner?"

"Hmmm, what was that? I can't hear you when you're mumbling. Try speaking up a little next time, or actually, here's a better idea. Shut up, and don't say anything at all, because that was a stupid question and deep down you already know the answer even if you won't admit it to yourself. You want him to be here so badly that you've already accepted the situation even if it doesn't make any sense. I barely have to do anything. I don't even have to put out my A game right now because it doesn't actually matter if I'm sloppy about this or not. You're still gong to justify, or rationalize, or outright ignore every little inconsistency or mistake if it means keeping this illusion going. Heck, you're even willing diminish your own accomplishment and give _him_ the credit for your escape, so long as it means that you exist in a reality where your brother hasn't _completely_ forgotten about you." Stanford gave a bellowing laugh, one that was strong enough to shake his whole body and knock one of his arms out of the tree completely. It dangled limply by his side. "It's kinda hilarious actually. Talk about easy pickings."

A shiver ran up Stan's spine despite the oppressiveness of the heat still searing throughout the dry air. Even though there wasn't a single cloud in the pastel blue sky the world around him seemed to be gradually turning a darker and darker shade, more like it was being drained of light than cast in shadow. It was as if some large, invisible hand had reached up to curl its fingers around the sun, diminishing and deadening its glow. In the dimness, Stanford looked more solid and real than Stanley felt.

Stan's parched lips struggled around the words he was trying to form, "I-I don't understand, what do you mean? What are we talkin' about here Ford?" He attempted a small smile, "You helped me out… you're here. You're here, I see you right in front of me. Look… look I-I know I've messed up a lot in the past, but… It's gonna be different. Things are gonna be ok. It's gonna be better between us now. I… I'll do better. Ok? I'm trying…."Stan's voice cracked into a breathy whisper and his heart started fluttering like a hummingbird in his ribcage. He looked up into Stanford's eyes and let his shoulders sag in defeat. "Please… please. I'm trying."

"Heh, you still don't get it, do you." Stanford's own smile morphed into an exasperated grimace. " You seem to be under the impression that this is something you can fix, but the truth is this has nothing to do with you. This has nothing to do with what _you_ want and everything to do with what _I_ want. And here's a huge shocker that I'm sure absolutely _no one_ saw coming, sarcasm by the way if your brain's still running a little too slow to keep up, I. DON'T. WANT. YOU. I have big plans for the near future, and if you try and drop by now you'll just end up being a spanner in the works. So here's the deal, when I-" His brother made little quotations with his fingers, "try to contact you, ignore my summons and don't come. How does that sound?"

"I-I… w-… but you're here. You wouldn't have come if you…" Stan shook his head, and then trailed off despondently. Stanford had said a lot of things, but only one sentence had managed to stick with Stanley. I don't want you. I don't want you. I don't want you. It clattered loudly throughout his mind like the gonging of a great brass bell, repeating over and over again until the words had lost their meaning and transformed into a collection of razor sharp glass syllables that cut into the soft flesh of his heart. It was _that_ string of words said by _that_ person, that represented a final door being slammed closed on Stanley's face, and a porch light being shut off for good. It was all his childhood fears inching forth from the black abyss of his nightmares to glare at him from the backseat of his car while he was driving alone and in silence. It was every hopeless whisper that leaked from his clenched teeth when he'd lie awake in the middle of the night, tossing and turning, too distraught to go back to sleep but too exhausted to try and do otherwise. It was the dissatisfied, mournful look that he'd give to the cracked motel wall as yet another birthday passed by uncelebrated.

Stanley looked down at the cracked lens of the heavy compass that was being cradled delicately in his trembling hands. He allowed a moment for himself to take everything in. The agonizing pain. The panicked desolation. The bitter jealousy. The unbearable loneliness. The desperate longing. The aching emptiness. All the wasted years of his life. He sat there, and just watched himself bleed.

Then he felt _it_ , the ever familiar burn of anger creeping out from the wounds in his heart like a dragon slowly waking from its slumber and stretching its limbs out of the various new holes in its cave. It started warming the rest of his chest in an unholy scalding blaze that ate its way through everything. Even the pounding in his head, and all his despair and hopeful eagerness from earlier became nothing more than dry tinder lighting up like matchsticks to fuel the hellfire. Stan's throat tightened as the hot smoke of his own contempt choked him, and he glared up at his brother in overwhelming animosity.

"Why! WHY! Why are you doing this! Why would you bother coming if ya didn't want me in the first place! After all this time, after all these years, are you really just tryin' to get rid of me again? You're… If you didn't want to see me again…" Stan let out a roar of frustration, and he closed his eyes and clenched his fists till the knuckles turned white as bone. He continued on, voice trembling in barely contained wrath and grief. "You gave me hope, y-you bastard. You gave me hope t-that you actually wanted… that you-" a noise between a snarl and a sob slipped past his lips without his consent "-You gave me hope and then you took it away! YOU TOOK IT AWAY! I would have rather you left me in the goddamn trunk to die, you bastard! You selfish bastard. YOU SHOULD HAVE JUST LEFT ME TO ROT!"

"So, should I take that as a 'yes, I'm going to stay away' or…"

Stan felt something in his mind snap like a long, glowing hot stick of charcoal suddenly splitting itself in a wood-burning stove. He stared at the ground for a few seconds and just enjoyed the feeling of his own pulse thrumming throughout his body, as his brain was flooded with a thick, unnatural calm. Without any clear idea of what he was going to do, or even what he was doing, he put his hand on the searing metal of the bumper and started hauling himself up. His legs tried to waver beneath him again, but he locked his knees into place and forced them to remain steady. Then he turned around and fixed his eyes the trunk. With one arm he wrenched open the hood, and with the other he grabbed the chains still lying tangled up near the corner of the compartment. His fingers curled firmly around the metal links even as his dislocated thumb creaked and popped with the strain, and he jerked the entire length out of the car with one sharp swing of his arm. The chains clinked noisily together in the surrounding silence, and a small puff of dirt kicked up when the end not ensnared in his fist touched upon the ground.

" Uhhh… What exactly are you planning to do with that?" It was the first time since Stanley had gotten out of the trunk that Stanford's voice had conveyed something aside from condescending apathy or disturbing glee. It spoke of apprehension; of the wariness one might give to a dog that had twisted up its lips to bare its teeth and growl.

Stan turned back around, but even though he was glaring directly at his brother he found himself having a hard time recognizing his face. The sun was brightening again, and Stanford seemed to be wavering and dissolving in the light. A blood red mark appeared next to his temple, then vanished. His skin suddenly darkened and then lightened again.

Stan started haltingly staggering forward, his feet shifting solidly beneath him in a way that made it feel as though they weren't actually attached to the rest of his still dizzy and disoriented body. The chains dragged on the ground behind him, lunging forward and then bunching up to match his jolting movements. Slowly, he began making his way to where his brother was sprawled out against the tree, his vision turning the world a deeper and deeper shade of crimson with every heavy thud of his foot and each aching thump of his heart.

Stanford's eyes widened in sudden trepidation and flickered momentarily into glowing yellow silts. "Whoa! Whoa, there buddy. You're a little peeved I get it, but I don't think you quite realize the implications of what you're doing here. Why not just take a little breather and relax while your judgment clears a little, ok."

Stan stumbled over a bit of sagebrush that had the misfortune of getting caught in his warpath but didn't halt otherwise.

"I mean think about it. You wouldn't _willingly_ hurt your own twin brother if you were in your right mind, now would you? Your other half?"

Stan tried to make a noise. He tried to convey to Stanford that even abandoning him completely would have been kinder than teasing and tormenting him with a false hope, and that if he valued his life he should turn tail and never cross Stanley's path ever again. But the capability to form words was beyond him at this point. Instead, Stan simply pressed his lips into a tight, thin line till they became bloodless and white. He put another foot forward.

"Look I can tell that you have a lot of anger issues, and inferiority issues, and codependence issues that you kinda need to work on-"

Stan was only a few feet from him now, his arm heavy and pulsing with energy. Ready to strike.

"-BUT I'M NOT HIM, I'M NOT YOUR BROTHER! I'm not Stanford, ok! If you think about it I never actually claimed to be. _You_ just assumed."

That got Stanley to stop. He stared in frustrated perplexity at the figure who was now claiming to not actually be his brother, understanding the words but not quite comprehending their meaning. It didn't make any sense. He looked like Stanford and sounded like Stanford, so who else could it be?

Not Stanford seemed to sense that he wasn't going to get a lot of time to try and explain himself before Stanley decided to strike him down anyways, just to be on the safe side, so he spoke as quickly and briefly as was possible for him. Unfortunately for Stanley's sluggish mind, that ended up being quite fast and not so brief.

"Yeah, I know how it must look from your perspective, but really, I'm not Stanford. Can't really blame you for hating him, though. I've been inside his head and you'd be surprised _how little_ you actually mean to him. Honestly, even _I_ was a bit surprised. Truth is, he just sees you as a toxic parasite who's gotten exactly what he deserves for selfishly destroying his science fair project and only chance at getting into his dream school. And can you really blame the guy? I mean, think about it. In a way, this _is_ exactly what you deserve Stan Pines. Karmatic justice."

Stan bit down on his tongue indignantly at that remark "No! It was an accident. I-I didn't mean-"

" _Sure it was_. But hey, think of it this way. You sabotaged his life, and now he gets to enjoy watching you sabotage your own life while triumphantly overcoming the obstacles _yo_ u set in his way. So at least he's getting a little satisfaction out of that, right? That can be considered a positive. At least your continued existence is benefiting him in _some_ way."

Stan raised his fist again threateningly, already angry enough to take out the person in front of him regardless of whom it was or wasn't. While Not Stanford obviously didn't regret his cruel jabs in the slightest, he at least seemed to acknowledge this as a queue to change his tune a little.

"Your mind, on the other hand," he continued, trying to sound a little friendlier, "seems to have its entire focal point built around him. Even his presence in your dream was so powerful and realistic, that I got duped into thinking it really was him for a moment. So kudos there, believe it or not, that doesn't actually happen every day. It's kinda sad, though, isn't it? To have someone mean so much to you, only to be burdened with the knowledge that they don't really care about you at all? I have to say, even though I'm not a huge fan of the emotion you meat bags call love, I do have a have a weakness for love unrequited. Mostly, because it tends to be accompanied by a lot of pain, frustration, and bitterness, and I find 'negative' emotions like that to be a lot easier to manipulate."

"Y-you're…" Stan's thoughts trailed off blankly for a few seconds before he refocused them. "You're the voice from earlier. The one I heard in the trunk. You're… who are you?"

"Who me? Oh, so maybe you are a little more self-aware than I first pegged you to be. _This_ should be fun." Not Stanford gave a delighted grin that a cat would give to a mouse that it was batting and biffing around. "As for your question, I'm your subconscious, and I'm just telling it like it is."

"No. You're… "

"I'm what."

"You can't… No. I… This doesn't-"

"Yes it does."

"No, stop! You're not! You can't be because you don't sound like-"

"Sound like what?"

"Y-You don't sound like me!"

"Neither does your subconscious"

"What are you talking abo-…Yes it does!"

"No, it doesn't. Come on Stanley, be reasonable and actually think about this for a moment. Listen to me. Remember."

The look on Not Stanford's face morphed dramatically into something that was soft and sympathetic. Understanding. Staring into the imitation of his brother's eyes took Stanley back to when the two of them were still kids, and he felt the ground shifting beneath him as he was dragged backward through several well-worn memories. He remembered when Stanford would worriedly hover and fuss over him after he'd gotten hurt in a fight, or doing something equally reckless or dangerous. And he would either moan about how painful his injuries were, or boast about whatever he might have accomplished while his brother liberally poured peroxide on his cuts and bandaged him up. And Stanford would always complain that if Stanley had just taken his advice, if he'd only listened to him for once, then he wouldn't have gotten into this mess to begin with.

Even if Stanley had been especially upset, or crying at the time, and he tended to be a very hard crier, just seeing his brother's gentle smile and concerned stare would give him the courage to dry his tears and put on a tough front. After all, things couldn't really be _that_ bad if he had someone who cared about him like this. Someone who was still willing to help him even if he did make mistakes and even if he didn't always take his brother's advice. Someone who would always have his back, and who's back he would always have in return. It was something that would light a fire within Stanley, and yet at the same time soothe him. He would be filled with comforting warmth akin to wrapping himself in a toasty blanket fresh out of the dryer on a rainy winter morning.

The memory was enough to make Stan's eyes water even as dehydrated as he was. Robbed of all other comfort as he was now the loss felt especially keen, and even if this wasn't actually his brother, the imitation was close enough to the real deal to be an alleviating balm. Stan grabbed at his heart in a last ditch effort to try and contain some of the warmth Not Stanford's smile was currently giving him before that too slipped away from him. His earlier protests were all but forgotten, calmed and subdued by the tender gleam in Not Stanford's eyes; the one that promised him that everything was alright. That everything was as it should be. Stanley felt his inner fire being quenched and restrained by the reassurances. He stared blankly in front of him into the wavering, reality-distorting heat of the white-hot desert, his body slowly collapsing to the ground in exhaustion.

"See, now you're getting it. Your subconscious, that little voice in your head that cautions you against stupid or foolhardy actions, the one that you obviously don't pay enough attention to if your life's turned out like this, it sounds like Stanford, right? Doesn't it? Come on now, nod along with me."

Stan nodded dumbly. Part of him still wanted to argue more, but his inner fire had all but burned out, and his mind was as vacant and barren as the desert around him. He didn't have the energy to try and resist. He couldn't think of a reason not to just cooperate.

Now that the strength and force of his anger had fled from him again, his body began to feel like it was falling apart. He could feel his heart pounding under the palm of his hand, hard and sluggishly, jarringly skipping a beat every now and then. His face felt feverishly hot and his limbs were weak, aching, and weary as if overcome by a sickness. And even though he was inhaling deeply, deliberately, he couldn't quite shake off the weightless, white static of lightheadedness that was stealing his breath away.

"Now tell me, who do I sound like? Go on, go ahead and say it."

"Ford." The name tumbled out over Stan's dry lips listlessly. His body trembled as another wave of nausea passed over him, and his head bowed as it suddenly became too heavy for his neck to keep supporting.

"And who do I look like?" The hands on Not Stanford's arms, one outstretched and one dangling loosely, twisted as he gave a vague gesture to his body.

"Ford." Stan repeated in defeat.

"Sooooooo, if I look like Stanford and talk like Stanford, but he's not actually here because the two don't keep in touch, and he has no way of knowing what's happened to you, and obviously wouldn't be able get here in time even if he did, then I must be your subconscious. Right?"

Stan nodded again slowly, feeling more than a little confused and frustrated with the situation. It didn't really make sense, but then nothing that had happened from the moment that he'd gotten out of the trunk really made sense, and he wasn't willing to entertain the idea that he was still trapped in there somehow and dreaming all of this up.

"Good." Stan's subconscious seemed to be quite pleased that it had once more gained control of the situation, and the same cocky, condescending attitude that had defined it so prominently before, returned again in full force. "Now that we're in agreement about that, there's something I want to try and explain to you. I know I'm a fast talker, and you're barely conscious and really not in the best state of mind to be discussing complicated issues, but I think that might actually end up working to my-" Stan's subconscious seemed to catch itself on the word and quickly amended the statement. "-to OUR advantage, so try to keep up, alright?"

Stan didn't respond. His subconscious snapped the fingers of the hand that was hanging by its side, the one that was right in front of Stan's face, to get his attention. Stan blinked blearily a few times before reiterating " Mm- fine, fine'll keep up" in a slurred mutter, and then bobbed his head up and down just in case it hadn't heard him.

"See, don't things go so much more smoothly when you listen to me. You really should try it more often. Now, back to what I was saying earlier… Hmmm. What was I talking about again? Oh yeah, your atrocious listening skills. You know that's probably one of your biggest problems, though I could understand how you'd overlook it seeing as you already have a mountain full of big problems that need to be worked on as it is, and sometimes things like this can get lost in the clutter. But the point I'm trying to get at here is …."

Stan's concentration started wavering again. His subconscious shook its hand in front of his face to refocus him, before pointing upward in a gesture meant to indicate that he wanted Stan to look at him while he was talking. Stan complied and lifted his head to lock eyes with the image of his brother towering high above him. A pair glowing yellow slits seemed to reach down through the sockets of his skull and hold his mind in place, and Stan soon found that he wasn't capable of looking away from them, even if he'd wanted to. And now that his sluggish sense of danger had finally caught up with the rest of his brain and was sounding an alarm in his head telling him that looking into those eyes had been a very, very bad idea, Stan found that he really, really wanted to look away. But it was too late. Every other feeling in Stan's body melted into nothingness as his subconscious took complete and unwavering control of his attention.


	8. Chapter 8

Author's note: Whew, this one was a doozy to write. I hope you all enjoy it.

* * *

Chapter 8

The brick walls are there for a reason. The brick walls are not there to keep us out. The brick walls are there to give us a chance to show how badly we want something.

Because the brick walls are there to stop the people who don't want it badly enough. They're there to stop the other people. - Randy Pausch

* * *

Yellow. Endless, unsettling, glowing, golden yellow cradling two deeply set streaks of long, black void. A fixed stare that seemed to be trying to swallow him up completely with a compelling pull into its vibrant and poisonous intensity. This was Stan's entire world now. The sky and searing bright light of the sun above him, the hard dusty ground, the scorched dry air, the car, the rocks, the sagebrush and Joshua trees, the entire desert landscape, was all gone. Gone and disappearing from his consciousness as a peculiar dream fades soon after waking. Stan knew, he knew in the back of his mind that all of it had to still be out there… somewhere... but it might as well have just bled out from the world entirely for all that he could interact with it. Reality was truly out of sight, and out of mind.

Even his own body seemed like a foreign and nonexistent entity beneath him. He couldn't move it, couldn't tell if he were still gripping tightly onto the chains that he'd dragged out from the car, or if he'd already let them slip through his loose fingers and drop to the dirt below. He didn't feel thirsty, or sore, or hurting, or hot. He wasn't even aware if he was breathing anymore, or if his heart were still beating in his chest. There was absolutely nothing for him to look at, nothing for him to focus on, save for the piercing yellow eyes that now ominously loomed over him, and the cruel satisfaction that swam within their depths.

"There, that should make things a bit easier." His brother's distorted voice bounced throughout his skull in a near deafening clarity. The volume of it was enough to make Stan wince internally, as it drowned out and scrambled whatever other thoughts that had been going through his head at the time. "Can't have a silly little thing like the fact that your meat bag of a body might be dying of heatstroke distract you from what's _really_ important, now can we?"

Stan tried to make a noise of protest at this, but his lips and throat were unresponsive. His whole body was unresponsive. Even the gratification of feeling a thrill of terror race its way through his heart at this sudden repeat of paralysis was denied to him.

"Aw, what's the matter Stanley? Don't tell me you're tongue-tied right now. Come on, you don't have to be shy around me. I promise I won't bite." A round of spiteful, childish laughter rang in-between Stan's ears as well as outside of them. Now that the owner of the shining amber orbs held all the power, it seemed to be almost enjoying the fact that Stan was wary and apprehensive in its presence.

"Really, though," the voice continued on, "there's no need to worry too much about your potential death creeping up on you right now. Believe it or not, I didn't come here with the _explicit_ purpose of killing you. Actually, as things stand now I don't have any intention of letting you die at all, just so long as the two of us can come to an agreement. Heck, I may even help you out of this fine little mess you've gotten yourself into if you have the sense to behave and cooperate fully with the demands I have lined up. I mean, being your subconscious and all, the only way I can help you if you agree to do what I say first. Right? Speaking of agreeing to things, I did actually come here with a specific purpose in mind, so what do you say we talk a little about that."

Stan's head was reeling, exasperatedly trying to keep up and take everything in. Though his mind might not have been currently flooded with the aching discomfort of his own body slowly giving out on him anymore, it was still a dizzy, murky, muddled, absolutely exhausted mess. This whole situation was far too surreal for him to make any sense of, and he was now finding himself continually plagued by the sinking suspicion that even if he'd woken up with a strong grip on reality while he was still within the confines of the trunk, it was more than likely that he'd already completely lost said grip long before he'd ever gotten out.

That was… if he'd really gotten out at all.

As discouraging as it was to admit it, at this point he had to surrender to the idea that this was a viable possibility. The simple fact of the matter was that he didn't really know what was going on. He didn't feel that he could be too sure of anything at the moment. Maybe this pair of glowing yellow eyes really was his subconscious, or maybe it wasn't. Maybe his brother had defied all odds to rescue him somehow, or maybe everything having to do with Stanford had merely been a product of Stan's own delirium. Maybe he was still locked up in the trunk, or maybe there had never been a car trunk in the first place, and all these events were just part of one long and terrible nightmare that he couldn't wake himself up from. The boundary between what was real and what wasn't had been badly blurred, like lines of chalk in a very heavy summer rain, and Stan simply didn't have the energy or clarity of mind to correctly sort out one from the other.

All Stan knew was that he just wanted for all of this to be over as quickly as possible, and if that meant he had to go along with whatever lunacy or delusion he was trapped in, then so be it. Even if there were going to be some disastrous consequence later down the road for him because of this, he couldn't find the energy to care right now. Besides, what this thing, his subconscious, his voice of reason, his brother, maybe something else entirely, wanted, it couldn't really be that outrageous or terrible. Could it?

Stan put up a front of false confidence to hide the fear and fatigue that he knew would cause his rasping voice to tremble, and tried to inform the yellow eyes as apathetically as he could that they could go ahead and make their stupid proposition already. He was then quickly reminded that he couldn't move his mouth to speak. It didn't seem to really matter. He could tell by the smug glinting that they somehow knew everything without him saying anything at all.

"Well, well, well, would you look at that. We both want this business to conclude as quickly and effortlessly as possible. See, this is gonna be a synch. We're finding common ground before we've really even started. And look, I know you may not like the sound of what I'm about to propose at first, but if you'll just keep an open mind and actually hear me out all the way through then I'm sure I can force you see the sense in it. Really, I think we'll both prefer it if I don't have to resort to more…. drastic means of getting you to comply."

Experience told Stan that the underlying threat should have probably made him nervous, especially if it was being brought out this early in the game, but he was feeling too disoriented and weary to be intimidated. He was ready to sign whatever dotted line was necessary just to break free of the insanity that had apparently taken hold of him, and get back to figuring out a way to escape from the desert with his life intact. Assuming all of _that_ had even been real.

"Yeah, don't let that bother you too much right now. It's just something I kinda want you to keep in mind while we're having this little discussion of ours. You know, to provide a little extra motivation." The glowing golden eyes curved upwards a little indicating that their owner was most likely smirking. They seemed disgustingly pleased by his cooperation thus far.

Stan gave no response. He just blearily stared up and waited for the eyes to continue.

"All right Stanley, so here's the thing. You know how your life's complete and utter disaster right now? Well as your subconscious I'm going to do you a favor and instruct you on how to take care of this little problem." The somewhat flippant tone of his 'subconscious' began to take on a slightly more sinister note as the eyes glowering down at Stan renewed the ferocity of their focus.

"Seriously, you need to listen to me this time, because right here, right now, I'm going to give you the chance to do the most worthwhile thing you've ever done in your life. Something that will set it right back on course and fix the complete trainwreck it's become. You see, you kinda have this habit of getting so caught up in how you feel at the moment, that you don't pay any attention to the way the world is moving on around, and without you. You don't notice the signs of the times, the ones that tell you 'Hey, guess what? It's time to jump ship. It's time to give up and move on to something else.' In fact, you routinely ignore those warnings until it's too late. And guess what Stanley? It's far, far too late. Consider this your last wake up call. Your brother, Stanford, he's the sinking ship that you need to abandon. You need to move on to something else and finally give up on him, just like he's already given up on you."

Stanley felt the dispirited haziness in his mind growing imperceptibly as the weight of the words set in, his thoughts whirling in a cold and tired stutter as he tried to discredit the accusation.

No, that... that was wrong. Stanford hadn't abandoned him, that was ridiculous. Things between them were... they were just... things were complicated right now, that was all. So what if he'd just imagined that Stanford had rescued him out of the trunk earlier? It wasn't his brother's fault that he hadn't really been there. It was Stanley's fault, it was always his fault. He was just a good for nothing screw up who had let his pathetic loneliness get the better of him and start playing tricks on him. It's not like Stanford could have known what had happened to him, and if he had known... h-he was sure he would have been there. He wouldn't have abandoned him. Even if things between them weren't... great right now, Stanford would still have his back. They would always have each other's back.

Stanford's warped voice gave an exasperated groan as the eyebrows above the yellow orbs furrowed in frustration. "Oh, don't give me that. You were nearly ready to kill the guy just a few moments ago."

Stanley couldn't help shrinking a little in shame. Now that his earlier outraged hysteria had burned itself out and left him more sobered, he was starting to feel a good deal of regret and guilt over his brief flirt with madness. He was fairly familiar with his own temper and knew that it tended to be pretty brief, explosive, and volatile, like a sudden eruption, but this was the first time his unrestrained fury had driven him to something as awful as potential murder. Granted, he hadn't really been in his right mind at the time, and in all likelihood still wasn't, but the fact that he was even capable of that at all left him feeling unsettled. That it had been directed at his brother, of all people, just made the dizzying remorse and overwhelming self-disgust that much more potent.

But then, that hadn't really been his brother, had it? That had been, well... that had been whatever this thing was. The real Stanford would have never treated him so cruelly. Didn't that make this a moot point?

"Ha! Look, I realize you're blindly loyal, so this isn't going to be an easy pill for you to swallow, but don't forget, I'm your subconscious, and I know what's best for you even if you aren't always able to recognize it yourself. Stanford Pines isn't exactly the stand-up, can-do-no-wrong guy that you seem to think he is. Really he's the kind of guy who wants to believe so badly that he's made for great things and that he's so much more important then the rest of his fellow flesh sacs in this backwater dimension, that he'll pretty much buy anything you tell him so long as you affirm that. Heck, I even made up some complete rubbish about six fingered beings representing a higher power or supernatural intelligence, and that idiot just lapped it all up. Seriously, even an interdimensional cosmic entity forged yesterday would know that kind of defect is pretty much cosmetic. It has no more significance or specialness to it than having an oddly shaped mole on your butt. Having two heads on the other hand…" His 'subconscious' trailed off for a moment, "Well, let's get back on track."

"Stanford, he's never going to bring you anything but heartache no matter how much you do for him in return. Just trust me on this one. If you go blindly running along to him whenever he calls, it's not going to end well for you. All you're going to get for it is thirty years of life down the drain and a punch to the face as a thank you for your hard work and countless sacrifices. And that certainly doesn't sound like any fun, now does it?" Stan's 'subconscious' gave a solemn shake of its head at this, though it never once broke eye contact.

Stanley's mind tensed in a hot and defensive discomfort.

No, it didn't sound like fun, but... it was wrong. It was wrong about everything. He didn't even know what it was talking about. What was with all that thirty years nonsense anyways, what exactly was that supposed to mean? And h-how dare it! How dare it say those things about his brother. Stanford wasn't an idiot, or ungrateful, or a bad person, that was how people had always described Stanley, but not him! He didn't like that the eyes drilling down into his own had talked about _him_ like that, he didn't like it at all, so Stanley pictured himself flipping the bird in his mind to make sure that he got this message across.

The yellow eyes curved in a fake satisfaction as they ignored his rude gesture. "Glad to see we're both on the same page, but here's something you might not have thought of before. You value your own life. I mean, that should be pretty obvious looking back at the lengths you went through to try and keep it, especially considering the hopelessness of your situation in the trunk back there. So if that's the case, then cutting ties with Stanford really would be the smart move for you. Don't you want to make a smart move for once in your miserable little life Stanley? If you don't… I guarantee that he won't hesitate to get you involved in whatever potentially fatal mistakes he's making right now. He'll drag both of you down with the weight of his own pride. From what I've seen, your brother has a pretty poor track record when it comes to being aware of or concerned about the health and wellbeing of the people around him. Either he doesn't realize the destructive consequences that his actions have, or he just doesn't care. Quite frankly, I'm leaning towards the latter being more accurate. Think about it Stanley. You had the decency to hang up the phone those two times and not drag him into your pathetic problems, so why should you have to be dragged into his? Surely you deserve better than that don't you?"

Did he deserve better? Why had he hung up on both occasions? Had that been out of pride or... no. No, it wasn't pride. When he had first been kicked out of his home in New Jeresy as an arrogant and angry teen, he'd put a very high value on his self-righteous outrage and stinging ego, but by this point he had already long ago crossed the line of selling out his own self-respect for the sake of comfort. No, it wasn't pride that had made him twice hang up the phone when he'd needed his brother's help six months ago. It was a fear of rejection. If the tables were turned, however, if his brother came to him instead, then that fear would be irrelevant.

Yes, Stanley valued his own life but he didn't mind being dragged into his brother's problems, even if they did have the potential to be life-threatening. He didn't want to deserve better, he didn't want to be proud. He would be happy to suffer through his brother's mistakes with him if need be, to follow him if he fell, and to be there to help stand him back up on his feet again. It wasn't an inconvenience.

Stan felt warm, softly burning embers catch in the centers of his eyes, and he slowly shook his head. He had no idea how he'd managed to move it, and after he'd finished he found that he wasn't able to move it again. But then, he only really needed to shake it once to get the message clearly across.

No.

His 'subconscious' gave resentful snort. It didn't seem to like his little display of motion. The intensity of his gaze receded a little in an attempt to make itself seem more friendly. "Now, now, settle down. Let's not let things between us get too heated up yet. Remember what I said about keeping an open mind?"

Yeah, he did remember, Stanley thought to himself with a bit more confidence, but then, he hadn't earned the nickname 'pendejo obstinado' while locked up in Colombian prison for nothing. Stanley was tired and he just wanted to get this over with. Whatever game this thing was trying to play, whatever point it was trying to make, it needed to hurry up and get to it already.

The black slits within the toxic yellow seemed to narrow as if mulling something over. " All right, all right. As someone who's spent the better part of his life conning people I thought you'd be a little more appreciative of the fine art of selling an idea, but fine. If you want me to cut straight to the chase, then I'll cut straight to the chase. You see, your brother is actually working on something really big and influential right now, something that will change the course of the entire world. He can't really afford to be distracted by his lowlife loser of a twin brother dropping by. Of course, every big project has its setbacks and Stanford may find some time in the near future that he was 'lied to' and that his 'life's work' isn't exactly what he thought it was. And it might be that in this time of 'darkness' for him, when he has no one else to turn to or trust, that he'll turn to you, and ask you for help. And here's the part where I'm really gonna need you to listen in close Stanley…."

Stan internally winced as the force behind the steady glowing orbs suddenly began to dig itself even more insistently into the sockets of his skull, tightening firmly around his mind till every other thought within it was snuffed out and silenced by the unyielding pressure.

"Ok, so here's what I want you to do. When your brother asks you for your help, when he beckons you to come and visit him in Gravity Falls, Oregon…. You're going to ignore him. If he calls you, you're going to hang up. If he sends you something in the mail, you're going to burn it without looking at or reading it. If he comes to your car, you're going to drive off without hearing what he has to say. If he comes to your doorstep, you're going to slam the door in his face and you won't open it no matter how hard or frequently he knocks. No matter what happens, no matter how he may try to ask, beg, bribe, or persuade you otherwise, you're going to stay away from him, and you're not going to let him get anywhere near you. How does all of that sound?"

It sounded terrible. The alarm bells that had begun sounding in his head after he heard the 'advice' were almost enough to cut through the cottony, lightheaded weariness that was currently muting and restraining his thoughts.

If his 'subconscious' had asked him to do almost anything else, compromise his morals, humiliate himself, get a steady job, beg his father for help, rob from an orphanage, even kill a man in cold blood, then Stan would have probably gone along with it just to get this whole ordeal over with. This, however, was one stance that he wasn't going to budge on regardless of how badly he wanted this misery to end. And while the biggest reason for this was the fact that he cared deeply about Stanford, to the point where his blood was boiling over just listening to the way this thing was talking about his brother, it wasn't the only reason that he wouldn't consider giving ground on this.

Because in a way, this was what Stanley wanted most right now.

Stanford was the most important person in Stanley's world, and he wanted to be wanted by his brother. He wanted to be needed. To be necessary. To be important and useful to him. If Stanford were to show up on his doorstep and request for his help, then Stanley give it to him without hesitation. Not just for his brother's sake, but for his own as well. Having his brother ask for him now would return to Stanley a sense security and purpose that he had lost some time ago, that he was now sifting through the ruins of a failed adult life to find. If Stanford needed him, Stanley would have a place to fit in. He would have a home. He would belong somewhere. And of all the things Stan desired for himself, he desired these the most. If Stanford were in trouble, if he called out for his brother's aid, then nothing in the heavens, or the earth, or under the earth, would stop Stanley from coming.

"Ah." The yellow eyes flickered with the same impatience and cunning that a cat staring down a mouse just out of its reach might give. Somehow it had sensed all that Stanley was feeling right now, and it seemed intent on readjusting its strategy to remedy the problem his stubbornness was presenting.

"You know, I think I'm finally beginning to understand where the heart of this disagreement of ours truly lies, and I have to say, I'm actually a little disappointed in you Stanley. It's absolutely ridiculous that you're still clinging to your brother even after all this time. He doesn't care about you, he never has. GET OVER IT! If you had any sense right now in that tiny little human brain of yours, you'd forget about your pathetic attempts to earn back his favor and focus on living your life however it is that _you_ really want to live it. You don't need him as much as you seem to think you do. Your life hasn't been an out of control mess because you're just a natural failure. You're not. No, no, no. You're a self-made failure, and honestly, that's probably worse. Deep down you have to realize that if you just ditched your hopes of ever fixing things between the two of you, and instead settled on getting a steady job that didn't offer potential loads of fast cash but still gave you what you needed to keep yourself afloat, then you wouldn't keep ending up in stupid situations like this! Do you really think you'd have ever found yourself locked up in a car trunk if you weren't always purposefully throwing yourself into dangerous money-making schemes or dealing with shady thugs in a sad attempt to earn enough to buy back your family's acceptance? When you look at it that way, it's that fact that you care so much about your brother that put you into that trunk in the first place. And I'll tell you what, Stanford certainly isn't the reason that you got out! His presence in your life has only ever brought you trouble and disappointment. You really think someone like him is worth all of this? Fine then, show me why. Back this stubbornness of your's up. Give me one good reason, one happy memory, that outweighs all the ways in which you're destroying your life for his sake."

Heh, it had been a big mistake to ask that question, Stan thought in a tipsy and sluggish self-assurance. If this thing wanted good memories to prove that his brother was worth every sacrifice he'd made these past seven years, then Stanley could provide more than half a lifetime's worth right off the top of his head. That would be the easiest thing in the world.

As if in answer to his overconfidence the brightness of the yellow eyes seemed to grow in a sudden, fixated intensity. An opaque glow that shined like light and moved like fog consumed every inch of Stan's field of vision. It poured itself into his eye sockets and filled every crevice in his head pulling him even deeper within himself, deeper into his own mind, into something like a dream. It dragged him further and further away from the reality of the desert still taking its toll on his motionless body hunched over in the dirt. The golden presence didn't quite intrude on his mind just yet, though. Instead, it confined itself to slowly circling around the outer edges in a tension that implied an unspoken threat.

"Well, I'm here now. So if it's so easy, then think of one already. I'll see it. Go ahead, just one is all I'm asking for. I'll wait."

Stan's mind was dazed and blank for a few long moments. The force of the will behind the yellow eyes' had been as overpowering as the undertow of a mighty river, and he couldn't help but be temporarily stunned by how wispy and frail his own presence seemed in comparison. Slowly, he eased himself out of his stupor and began to cautiously summon the requested memory. It was one of the most important and precious that he'd ever had of his brother. He remembered it as clearly as if it were happening to him right now. It was the time when the two of them had been…. When he had….. It was… it….. where…..

Stanley froze again, overcome by the creeping of a frantic, despondent dread.

How? How in the world could he have possibly forgotten it? Stan focused even harder on the recollection; desperately shoving aside the gilded mist that curled and billowed in the forefront of his mind to try and fill the empty space that the memory had once occupied. He thought he might have brushed up against it for a moment, and was given a brief impression of two boys sitting on a sitting on a swing set on the beach, but he couldn't remember what had made it so particularly pleasant or why it was important to him.

"Well. I'm still waiting."

Stan's train of thought was a stuttering collapsing mess. The engines smoldering with a frustrated, panicked sense of loss that he couldn't understand or hope to explain. But fine. Fine, fine it was all fine. Fine, fine, fine, fine, fine, fine, fi-. Even if he wasn't able to recall that memory, it wasn't a problem. It wasn't a problem at all. There were no problems. Everything was fine. There were still plenty more where it had come from.

Stan refocused the trembling energy of his thoughts in an effort to call upon those memories as well. He thought of all the good times that he and his brother had shared, all the make-believe and sometimes even real adventures that the two had partaken in, all the trouble they had gotten into and the punishments they would endure while shooting either regretful or cocky grins at each other. He thought of every time that one would make a joke that would send the other into a breathless huddle of uncontrolled laughter, every time when one of them would be upset and the other would stay by their side and hold them close, every time one of them had promised that they would go to the ends of the earth and back again for the other. He even tried to sink himself into the warm easiness of all the quiet moments the two had shared, where nothing had really happened at all and they had just enjoyed the others company.

But each time he tried to bring up one of these memories they would slip from his grasp before he could get anything more than a faint impression of their contents. The process from the first memory seemed to be repeating itself again, and again, and again. The gleaming haze devoured everything while simultaneously denying all wrongdoing, and Stanley was too deranged and disoriented to follow up on his distraught, half-formed accusations.

His tormented mind began to shudder even more violently, like a brittle autumn leaf in a windstorm. He felt desperately, hopelessly lost. Alone.

W-where had they gone? Where had those memories of Stanford gone? They were there, they had been right there! They had been right there! What had happened to them?! How had it taken them away from him?

He had to resist the childish part of him that wanted to cry out to his brother for help.

The scene in his mind began to take an even more dreamlike form. It was as though Stanley were now standing on the old, barnacle-encrusted, rotted, half-sinking skeleton of the Stan O' War. He was adrift without an anchor, surrounded on all sides by an endless sea of golden, shimmering, malevolent presence.

Then something that the shining fog had been collecting while Stan had been previously preoccupied began to take shape, and he sensed its shadowed form seeping out from behind the curtain of glowing mist. It was a flock of dark and dangerous albatross that circled him from high on above. He knew, he knew what they were. He watched their progress, watched them spinning above him with a fatigued and unhinged acceptance and forced himself to remain steady. There was barely any time brace for the torrent before they descend upon his waning sense of purpose with a surprising viciousness. They scratched and clawed at him in a competition to grab his attention. They flew up close, and spread their large beating wings so that they took up the whole of his mind in a cacophony of squawking and shirking. Moments where he'd been the most angry, upset, resentful, and jealous of Stanford appeared before him now in a stunning, undeniable, painful clarity.

There was a memory over here of Stanford saying nothing while their principal had openly mocked and belittled Stanley in front of their parents. There was an earlier memory over there of the time when Stanford had tattled on his brother for nicking a couple of tangerines from the grocery store, which had gotten their father to box Stanley 's ears before grounding him for two whole weeks. There was yet another memory over in the corner of Stanford's bruised and swollen face scowling in anger as he ranted about what a dumb, worthless, waste of time boxing was, and how much he utterly despised the wretched sport. As Stanley had listened to this, the ribbon that he had been hanging up from the match he had won earlier that day suddenly didn't feel as significant or important as it had before. It was the first and only award to sit upon his shelf. A shelf that sat opposite another shelf with forty plus awards overflowing off its sides.

But there was one memory that was far more damning and damaging than all the rest. It was one that Stanley only clung to at the times when he was feeling the most bitter and spiteful at himself and the world around him. It sat boldly, patiently gazing down at his efforts to fend off and swat at the other terrible memories for a long while, before swooping down upon him itself to deliver a final, fatal blow.

It was the memory of Stanley reaching his hand up to beg for his brother's aid while his father was throwing him out, and of Stanford turning his head away, and closing the curtains on him.

Stan could feel tears pricking in his eyes. The pain that it brought to his mind was stinging, and dull, and heavy. It held the same terrible, somber weight that the last sunset would carry with it, on the last day of the earth.

The yellow eyes stared into him with an almost bubbly satisfaction. "Soooooo, why exactly are you willing so sacrifice so much for this guy? You still haven't answered that question for me. You seemed so sure of yourself before. I thought you'd be able to offer me one reason at the very least, even if it wasn't a good one. "

Stan didn't respond. He couldn't. His mind was whirling, spinning, and tumbling out of control. The image his brother's softly smiling face was being replaced with the one that Stanley had been imagining while he was still locked in the trunk of the car. It was the one of Stanford condescendingly looking down on a brother that he must have felt himself to be so utterly and completely superior to. It made Stanley's insides writhe with a bitter and miserable contempt. It was unbelievable sometimes what an egotistical, pretentious, know-it-all his brother could be.

Stanford had a tendency to be selfish, arrogant, and self-righteous. He was easily flattered and especially sensitive to criticism or humiliation. The latter was one of the reasons why Stanley, who had come to take a special pride in being desensitized to what most other people's opinions about him were, had taken the fall for his brother on so many, many occasions. Like who had wet the bed, or who had dusted the shelves incorrectly, or 'Was your brother in on this?' 'No mam, I wrecked the lab equipment all by myself', or even tossing punch all over himself on prom night just so his brother wouldn't have to suffer in his embarrassment alone. And _when_ , when in all of those times had Stanford ever done the same for him? What had _he_ ever sacrificed for Stanley's benefit to prove that _he_ cared about his brother just as much as Stanley cared about him?

Stan was sure that there were plenty of times when his brother had, he was _so_ sure, but they were hidden somewhere in the shining yellow gloom surrounding him, out of his mind and memory. As things were now, he honestly couldn't recall a single time when the shoe had been on the other foot.

Maybe... maybe he didn't care. Maybe all of this really was useless. Maybe he was hopelessly chasing after something that had never been there to begin with. Something that he had fooled himself into thinking existed, just like he had fooled himself into thinking that Stanford had come for him and rescued him from the confines of the dark trunk.

Stanley felt as though his whole world were slowly being turned upside-down on him, and all the loose debris that were clattering to the new floor were assaulting him on their way down.

No. This wasn't right, none of it was right. That wasn't how things between them had been. This wasn't how he felt.

"Come on now Stanley, can't you see the sense in this yet? It's not like you brother's ever fought for your sake, so why should you try and work yourself into an early grave making money for him? Why should you care at all about him, when he doesn't care enough about you not to put his 'academic excellence' ahead of his own brother? He's abandoned you to suffer this fate alone for more than seven years. He didn't once take hold of your outstretched hand to help pull you back up from this disastrous wreck that your life has become. And now Stanley, now you have the opportunity to return the favor. Now you can leave Stanford with his arm outstretched, begging for your help, while you turn away and close the curtains on him! Wouldn't that be so satisfying?"

In this moment, Stanley felt as though he could almost agree with that. His mind was blistering in an overwhelming sense of frantic hurt and betrayal, as fragile and hot with anger as paper-thin white ash curled around a glowing orange cinder. The yellow eyes bored into him expectantly, commanding him to submit to its designs.

"No."

The quiet sound rasped out from his dry throat. Stan had absolutely no idea how he'd managed it. The word hadn't even come from his mind but had seemed to well up from some other gently aching place deep inside his chest till it overflowed his lungs and poured forth from his mouth. It wasn't an answer to the entity's question, not really. It wasn't a good memory that outweighed all the difficulties he had put himself through for his brother's sake. It had no reason, or logic to back it up. It had no proof to prop it up or justify its existence.

Yet it was still there, defiantly and undeniably true despite all evidence that its existence was a flawed one. It needed no foundation to hold itself up, it just was.

The glowing yellow within the eyes dimmed in an impatient, savage anger. "Stanford's already abandoned you in your many, many hours of need, so now you're going to abandon hi-"

"No."

Stanley wasn't going to abandon his brother, wasn't going to doubt that Stanford truly cared about him, even if he didn't have a single goddamn reason not to. He just wasn't capable of that.

The daunting yellow eyes seemed to shrink in revulsion for a moment, and then the gilded mist that had invaded his mind earlier withdrew. In doing so, it returned the treasured memories Stan had thought to be lost to him. The comfort he felt at experiencing them again was as heartbreakingly wonderful and warming as wrapping one's arms around a loved one thought to be dead. For a few seconds, he was left to enjoy the fruits of his senseless, illogical defiance in peace.

He reveled in the memories of the times when Stanford had patiently helped him study for the classes he was failing in, even though Stanley was a slow learner and a real pain to try and teach. How Stanford would sit with him late into the night and read over the contents of their textbooks by the dim light of their lamp, while Stanley would puff his cheeks and pout at him as he tried to sneakily slink off the chair that they were sharing. How his brother had even helped him to cheat on numerous occasions, despite how opposed he was to the idea and the way his hands would shake at the fear of getting caught.

A warm and tender affection sprang into his mind as he remembered staring out into the car lot where a shining new El Diablo had sat, and Stanford walking up to him, barely able to keep the knowing grin off from his face, and offering to use all the money he had been collecting and saving up over the years to help pay for the vehicle. Stanley had hugged his brother so overzealously that there had been bruises on his ribs the next day, and while their parent's wrath at this 'frivolous waste' had been a sight to behold, Stanford had just smiled back at Stanley throughout the whole lecture.

He even reclaimed the memory of the two of them sitting on a swing set by the beach in the early morning, and remembered why that one, in particular, had been so special to him. Nothing much had happened in it, no words had even been spoken. It was just... peaceful. Just the pair of them listing to the whispered creaking of the swings and the dull roar of the ocean in the background. Just two lonely souls, quietly enjoying being in each other's presence.

More and more began flooding all about him with a clean and undarkened strength, propping up his weary mind and filling it with a very calm, cold, and tired certainty, the same one he had become familiar with in an earlier dream. Whatever he had to sacrifice, whatever trials he might have to endure, however much of himself he had to whittle away or however long he might have to wait, his brother was worth it. Even if Stanley received nothing else for his efforts, not even a thank you, Stanford would always be worth it.

But his relief didn't last long.

"So that's what you're really gonna stick with, huh? Fine then. Have it your way." The familiar and yet unfamiliar voice of his brother snapped with a caustic, clipped distaste, as though its owner had been personally offended by Stan's resolve. The deep black pupils tightened to slits as sharp and thin as the edges of a dagger, and they glared at him in a disgusted dissatisfaction.

"I thought the two of us might be able to reach a mutually beneficial agreement without anyone getting hurt, but if you're gonna be stubborn about this then I guess I don't have any other choice than to resort to plan B. At least I had the foresight to catch you in a state where you're not going to have the clarity of mind to fight me off. So that's a plus. I really wish I didn't have to, though. Not because of how absolutely awful this is going to be for you, cause that's actually going to be pretty funny. Naw, I'm a little miffed because this is gonna _really_ tire me out for a while, and I was kinda planning to use my energy for other important matters I have lined up. But nooo, _you_ just had to go and inconvenience me. Because at the end of the day that's what you do best, isn't it Stanley. You just make things more difficult for yourself, and your brother, and your family, and for everyone else around you. Now you're going to enter a world of pain and suffering Stan Pines, and you don't have anyone to blame for this but yourself. I hope you take a lot of pleasure in that fact because I know I'm certainly going to while I'm listening to you screami-"

Stan's subconscious abruptly cut off, and the glowing golden energy that had consumed Stan's field of vision inexplicably retreated. His body slumped forward like a puppet suddenly being cut from its strings. He fell back into reality, into the hot sunlight and cloudless blue sky, into thirst and the aching exhaustion of his body and the faint beating of his own heart against his ribcage. His head pounded insistently against the hard desert ground, and he blinked in a heavy, lazy sleepiness as he watched the waves of heat distort the various shapes of rocks, and trees, and sagebrush milling about in the distance. Questions began to lethargically buzz around in his mind.

What had happened? What had caused this madness to release him? Where was he? What was real? Had it already done something to him and he just didn't realize it? Why did dirt make such a lousy pillow anyways?

Stan wearily risked a glance up at his 'subconscious' looking for some answer to all of this, but the image of his brother wasn't looking back at him. He could still make out the expression on its face, a strange combination of confusion, apprehension, and white-faced anger, and he could see that its eyes were no longer that disquieting shade of yellow that they'd been for the later half of their talk. However, he had no real idea as to what had suddenly caught its attention or what had caused it to shut its big mouth. He observed Stanford's lifeless hanging body for a few more moments, noticing that it now seemed intent on holding as perfectly still as possible, before he followed its focused gaze back out into the empty plains of the desert.

He didn't see anything for a good long while, save for the scorched landscape and desiccated plants, but just as he was slowly closing his eyes to maybe... take a little nap and ease his parched, fevered fatigue, he noticed that there was one small shape on the horizon that was moving... differently. Not like the way the other shapes were being bent and swirled around by the searing heat.

He thought it almost looked a little like... the shadowed figure of a man leisurely making its way towards the two of them. A warped and wavering outline of a pitch-black silhouette. The same one that'd had its back to the sun and had loomed over Stanley as the trunk had opened.


	9. Chapter 9

Author's note: Just to give you all fair warning this chapter is going to get a bit feels-y towards the end. Seriously, even my own eyes were watering as I was writing the later half. Oh, and about this story only being ten chapters long... Yeah, I was wrong about that again. It's actually going to end up being eleven now instead. Sorry for miscalculating that twice.

* * *

Chapter 9

A noble purpose inspires sacrifice, stimulates innovation and encourages perseverance. - Gary Hamel

* * *

Stan's mind was whirling and stuttering sluggishly about as though it were an overheated, overtaxed computer.

The dark apparition in the distance, it was… it was the same one that had gotten him out of the trunk. Maybe. Was it? Was it the one he'd fooled himself into thinking was Stanford while he'd been going through that desperate outburst of hysteria? No, no it couldn't be. Stanford wasn't here; there was no way he could've been all the way out here. He didn't know what was happening to his twin, and he couldn't have gotten to where he was from Oregon in such a short amount of time even if he had. He…h-he had escaped from the enclosed trunk on his own, somehow. There just… there couldn't be any other explanation. All of his banging and bashing around must have weakened the latch on the vehicle and popped it open.

Stanford wasn't here. He never had been. Stan was determined to remain firmly within the reality of that fact. He wasn't going to let a sense foolish hope or his own delusional loneliness drive him right off the deep end again. He'd only just been released from one dangerous fit of insanity, he wasn't eager to jump back into another.

It was probably… probably, just another hallucination, right? Then there was no real need to pay it any attention. After all, Stan thought as he allowed himself another quick peek up to where his 'subconscious' was tensely draped across the stubby branches of the Joshua tree, he was busy dealing with enough unpleasant hallucinations as it was.

It was a bit strange, though, Stan noted as he scrutinized the limply dangling body of his brother above him, that… that… what even was that thing? Why could he still see it? Why was it so hot? So hot. He was tired. Well… well, it didn't really matter, but it was strange that _it_ could see that silhouette too. Really weird. But then, Stan supposed, if this thing really was just another product of his already fractured, failing mind, then it made sense that it would be affected by the same erratic delusions that he was having.

He was tired. The heat of the sun was starting to feel almost soothing as it beat upon his dry, red skin. He found the ground wasn't too uncomfortable either, or at least, not nearly as hard, rough, and pebble strewn as it had felt before when he'd first fallen onto it. Stan's eyelids were starting to feel quite… quite… very heavy, and they drooped as he vacantly observed the progress of the wavering shadow meandering in the direction of him and his other delusion. He couldn't, though… not yet. He couldn't let himself fall asleep just yet. There was something he needed… w-was… was it… What did he need to do?

Oh, that's right.

He was dying.

Hmmm. Yeah. That was probably it. Tha-that…ummm. It seemed kind of important.

Hmmm. He was tired.

Stan tried lifting his head a little, but only made it a few inches before his weak and weary neck just couldn't take the strain anymore and his head fell back to the desert floor again with a dull thunk. The sound was awful. It reverberated throughout his skull like an echo in a large, inky, forebodingly silent cavern. Stan pinched his eyes closed in a grimace as he waited for the resonant vibration to fade away or disappear, but despite the seconds slowly ticking by it just seemed to keep going. Ever rising like a dizzying, nauseating rendition of the Shepard's tone.

He attempted similar motions with some of his other limbs as well, but nothing really responded like it was supposed to, and the effort that it cost him to move the appendages was quickly draining him of any remaining energy he had managed to hang onto thus far. Too exhausted... he was beyond exhausted, he couldn't do this. He didn't want to try and get up anymore. It was just too hot. He was burning up inside. Everything was too hot.

A soft sigh tumbled its way out of Stan's stiff, cracked lips, and the shallow scraping of his breath sent a small cloud of feather-light dust drifting into the dry air in front of him. He watched in a dazed stupor as the sunlit particles of dirt hung suspended for a few moments, before they slowly settled back down to the earth in a gentle wash of dirty brown mist. He let out another long exhale, and watched the results of his spiritless wheezing again.

He was dying. The truth of the statement was now beginning to sink into the more self-aware parts of his consciousness in the same haunting way that blood seeps through and stains the cloth of a well-worn shirt. His body was finally giving out, and shutting down on him. Stan could feel it in the shallow panting of his chest, and the thick, tingling static buzzing about in his pounding head. He knew it by the tired, painful creaking of his joints, the shaky, spent energy of his weighted, aching limbs, the fevered flush of his face. It occurred to him that he should probably… probably… that he should… do something about that.

But what?

Stan racked his brain for a solution to fix this problem, but nothing came to him. He tried it again, just to be on the safe side, and again his mind just hummed along unhelpfully. His will to fight, to continue struggling for his life, was faintly fading into nothingness as though it were as fragile, and wispy, and floating as the puffs of dust kicked up by his breath. It didn't really matter, Stan thought grimly to himself. As things were now, he seriously doubted that he had enough strength to go through with any grand plan of action even if he had been able to concoct something up.

Maybe… If he could only close his eyes for a minute or two, then... maybe he could figure something out a little later on. Really, just that. Just one or two measly minutes was all he wanted. That wouldn't really kill him, would it? And… and even if it did, well… Well, when it came down to it, it had been a good run.

Yeah, he was going to die as a penniless, worthless, grifting, lowlife who'd never accomplished anything significant or worthy of praise, but hey, the world was probably full of unmarked and unmourned graves stuffed with poor stupid saps like him, so at least he'd be in good company. And yeah, he'd never succeeded in proving everyone back home wrong about what a loser he was going to turn out to be, and he'd never risen above the title of 'family disappointment', or done something that would have made his existence beneficial to his folks instead of just a financial burden, but… well… At the very least he wouldn't be there to wreck things up for them anymore. That had to be worth something. He'd never gotten to live out his big dream of being an international treasure hunter either, but then, that had been a pretty naïve and laughable aspiration anyways. Unfeasible and childish was what others had called it, and they were right. They were… t-they had all been right about everything having to do with him. Still, it had been something nice to look forward to while it lasted, even if he _had_ just been dangling an imaginary carrot in front of his own dumb face the whole time. Hell, a good chunk of his life may have been a pretty miserable and pathetic wreckage, but he couldn't deny that he'd also had a lot of fun along the way. After all, he still had the collection of pleasant memories that he'd shared with his brother Stanfo-

Stanford.

And… and Stanford. Things between them were… he'd never gotten to…

Stan closed his eyes again to try and fend off the rising tide of empty, anguished regret that seemed to pool itself around his heart, and drown it in its unrelenting pressure and weight. A lump of sorrow clawed its way up into the back oh his sore throat, pressing against the soft flesh till it ached. He didn't have enough saliva to force it back down. His body shivered a little in spite of its near critical temperature.

If there was a single remorse that Stanley couldn't help but take with him to the grave, it was that he'd let things end on a bitter note between the two of them. That he hadn't been able to make things up to his brother. That he wouldn't be there for him in the future, if Stanford needed him. Heh, yeah. Right. Like Stanford would ever really need his help. Like an incompetent, lazy, mean-spirited, pain in the butt such as himself could ever do something valuable for someone as hardworking, intelligent, driven, and kindhearted as his brother. Who did he think he was fooling?

When he had been struggling with that surreal hallucination earlier, his 'subconscious', or whatever, had almost made it sound like his brother might need him somewhere down the line, but looking back at that now the whole argument they'd had seemed utterly ridiculous and pointlessly speculative. It had most likely… maybe it had just said those things because that was what Stanley had wanted to believe. It was hard to imagine a person as meticulous and well thought out as Stanford ever getting in over his head, or requiring someone else's assistance to fix his own mistakes. Making rash, reckless decisions and later needing a bailout had always been Stanley's area of expertise rather than his.

He wished… It was just that… h-he wished that he could maybe just hug him, one last time. Just squeeze his brother tightly against his chest like he would never have to let go, and then tell him how much he meant to him, and how… how sorry he was. For everything. If he could just do that… Yeah. If could just do that, then Stanley felt that he could die in peace. T-that… that… was….w-…

Stan gave a sudden jolt and his eyes snapped wide open again. The dark specter, or mirage, or whatever it was, had somehow snuck up on him without him realizing it and was now standing quite stationary a mere couple of yards away. Stan looked back up towards the Joshua tree to see if his 'subconscious' could still see the thing too, and found to his slight surprise that it apparently could, and was right now glaring at the shadowy shape with the reserved, angry caution that one might give to an unpredictable animal or potential enemy. The silent, phantomlike silhouette, on the other hand, seemed to barely take any notice of the figure sprawled out on the twisting branches of the tree at all, and instead appeared to concentrate its attention solely on Stan and Stan alone. The way it stared at him was intense, but it didn't hold the same distressing, piercingly ominous energy that the seemingly all-knowing yellow eyes had used to force their way into the more intimate sections of his soul. It was looking at him like… well, there was no other way to describe it really, like it was curious. It was a bit hard for Stan to tell, especially since he couldn't make out any eyes on the things face, but it almost seemed to be tilting its head to the side, as though _he_ were the strange or foreign something that _it_ couldn't quite wrap its head around. Although Stan's insides squirmed a little in apprehension at the shadow's peculiar behavior, he didn't actually feel all that intimidated by it. He wasn't sure why.

Probably because it was just an illusion, Stan told himself, or some other result of his own deranged imaginings. As such, he was well aware the trying to engage it would not only be a waste of time, but would also probably take him one step closer to his ever and ever more inevitable death. But at the same time it was just so… so there, and prominent, and eye-catching that he couldn't really avoid it either. Besides, it didn't look like it was going to be going away anytime in the near future, and even playing along with a hallucination now seemed more appealing than simply lying around and listening to the painful drone of his own pathetic regrets while waiting for the Grim Reaper to finally come and claim his dark empty soul.

Wait! Stan backtracked his train of thought a little. Was it possible that this… this couldn't be the Grim Reaper itself, could it? It didn't really seem all that awe-inspiring or terrifying for a supposed angel of death, but then, who was Stanley to judge when it came to being a gigantic disappointing letdown.

He had an idea of asking the maybe-ghoul if the legends he'd heard about its weakness for gambling were true, and if so, if it wouldn't mind going a few rounds with him. It was a pretty long shot, firstly because even now Stan wasn't entirely convinced that he believed in supernatural specters like this, and second and thirdly because he didn't have his loaded dice on him at the moment, and even if he'd had, it wasn't likely that he'd be able to get away with cheating death itself, but then, Stan felt that he really didn't stand to lose much of anything by trying either. What was the worst it could do, kill him faster? That would almost be a relief. Stan opened his mouth to try and start up a conversation to this effect, but the dry wheezing that choked its way out of his raw throat wasn't even remotely recognizable as human speech. The sound bounced around uncannily in the near defining silence of the flat, barren desert.

For a few moments, moments that took no time at all and yet simultaneously took all the time in the world, nothing happened. His 'subconscious' hadn't stopped glaring at the shadowed figure since it had first appeared, and even now was keeping its mouth firmly shut. There was also no attempt by the silhouette to respond to racket he had made, aside from continuing to hold its seemingly intent stare. It just... stood there, as stagnant and still as an immovable stone against the waves of heat that boiled and distorted the surrounding air. Stan's thoughts, which had been wandering along in a sort of careless acceptance of his oncoming doom, suddenly restrained and muted themselves in a stiff anticipation of whatever was to come. His breath built up uncomfortably in his chest as he settled himself into a tense calm.

They both gazed back at the other unfalteringly; waiting for something, though, neither really seemed to be sure what that something was. Waiting for the other to show them, to make the first move and break the steady wall of oppressive quiet that had grown between them. Then, gradually, almost unbearably slowly, the man-shaped shadow began to move. It raised one of its long black arms, and pointed to a spot on the ground next to Stan's prone body. Stan hesitated uncertainly, then he let his eyes track the line that the gesture had made till they landed upon a small, cracked compass lying a few feet away.

That thing again. He must have… he must have accidentally dropped earlier as he'd been descending upon the fake Stanford with the intent to kill still boiling throughout his blood. Stan didn't remember dropping it back then, but then he didn't remember ever picking it up either, and in fact, hadn't the slightest clue as to how it had come to be in his position in the first place or why it seemed to be following him around.

Wait. Hadn't Stanford given this to him in a dream he'd had while he was still locked within the trunk? Yeah. That was right. One of their old teachers had given Stanford the compass as a gift, and Stanley had asked his brother to use it to find him only to have the trinket thrown back at his head. Was that supposed to be a signal to him that he was still dreaming, even now? Was he that far removed from reality that he couldn't tell the difference anymore? Did any of that really matter when he was on the verge of death anyways?

Stan shot a weary, questioning glance over to the pitch-black phantom, but it didn't appear to notice his expression and simply continued to point at the spot where the compass was now nestling lightly in a slight crater of hot, dusty earth. He hesitated again for another brief moment, took a deep breath to gather himself, and lifted his uncooperative body up a little as he inched forward to grab at the familiar trinket.

The moment that the side of his index finger brushed up against the sun-warmed brass of the instrument, a sudden dark, red wash of light poured smoothly over the world surrounding Stan. The ground, and sky, and plants and rocks around him seemed to be fluidly stretching and twisting away, streaking farther and farther until they disappeared completely into crimson glow of the horizon. The daylight dimmed, flickered, and wavered as though the sun were being forcibly wrenched from its position high above Stan to rest somewhere at his back, the blistering intensity of its heat muted to a dull warm radiance. A cool, wet breeze that carried the musty smell of saltwater and seaweed lightly swept against his hurt, scabbing face, and the refreshing lungful of air he inhaled was enough to make him close his eyes for a moment and ease the tension in his shoulders. The low, subdued rhythm of waves crashing against the sand and then receding back into the deep, dark sea, seemed to be in tune with the shallow beating of Stan's heart, and he couldn't help but feel as though the organ were drawing strength from the overwhelming power and might of the ocean just by his listening to it. Stan opened his eyes again, and for a few timeless and soundless moments, he couldn't tell if he was lying in the dusty desert, or in the sand on the shore of the ocean. The winding of heat in the distance looked like the swelling tide of the sea stretching out as far as the eye could see before him. He peered back over to the where the shadowed silhouette had been standing, only to find that its features were now dimly illuminated by the soft ruby light of the sun setting behind Stanley.

The figure was Stanford. But unlike the Stanford that he'd been chatting with since he'd gotten out of the trunk, this one wasn't the same ageless, photographic image than Stanley remembered. There wasn't exactly a huge difference, he was apparently still sporting his old wayfarer glasses after all this time, but the wrinkles and bags under his eyes were now a bit more numerous and pronounced, and he looked taller and lankier too. It seemed his chin and shoulders had even squared out to resemble Stanley's a little more closely.

A few gulls screeched overhead, and the metal links of a swing set squealed in a faint hush as the two brothers stared at each other. Stanley, with an odd mixture of caution and amazement, and Stanford, with his eyebrows furrowed in confusion and curiosity, the same expression that he would often wear as a child when he was trying to piece together an especially vexing mystery.

Stanley really didn't know how to feel about this, about any of it. He was sure that it was just another illusion conjured up by the stuttering insanity of his own fatigued mind, but his brother's presence set his heart fluttering all the same and released a tight pressure that had been curled up at the base of his skull.

Stanford put a hand up to his mouth and cleared his throat briefly before asking in half timid uneasiness, half intense interest, "Is that yours?" As he did this, he nodded his head slightly towards the compass still held loosely in his brother's grip.

Stanley tiredly forced himself to sit up a little more so that he was now kneeling in the cushiony, chilled sand beneath him, and then the let his line of sight fall back down to the strange trinket. It glowed brightly in between his fingers, reflecting the light of the scarlet sun sinking into the backdrop of his old hometown. He allowed his fingertips to slowly trace over the dented, rusted metal and the sharp grooves of the unusual symbols etched into its back, before remembering something from earlier and then turning it over to the front.

The lens of the instrument was still cracked as it had been before, splintering jaggedly right down the center and dividing the inner workings into two halves. But despite this, it didn't look as bad as he'd thought it had when it first fractured.

It was kind of funny. At the time he'd been so consumed by the misery of his brother not wanting or needing him anymore, the loneliness of no longer having a home or person to return to, that the damage had appeared to be completely and irreparably devastating. Now that he was examining it again, however, the destruction seemed… trivial, like a series of small battle scars that looked cool but didn't really speak of great pains. The needle at least seemed to be working well enough, and it lazily swiveled around and around till it finally settled upon one direction that it seemed to like, and refused to be moved any further. It was pointed directly in front of him. To the man standing before him, and the dull red ocean swelling and shimmering beyond.

Why?

It was where the needle of the compass was always going to point; he had known that before he'd even bothered picking it up… but the question remained, why? What _was_ the reason that Stanley had still firmly insisted "No", even when his 'subconscious' had taken away all the good memories that he'd ever had of his brother and left only the most bitter and cruel ones in its wake? Why _had_ he stubbornly refused even when he'd been given every reason in the world to comply with the yellow eye's demands and agree to give up on Stanford forever? Although his 'subconscious', or delusion, or whatever the hell that thing had been wasn't clouding up his mind anymore, or trying to confuse and mislead him, he still wasn't sure if he had an answer to the query it had presented. Because, when it came right down to it… Stanford _had_ abandoned him. He wasn't _actually_ here when Stanley needed him now, and he hadn't been there for the many times that Stanley had needed him in the past. And in both cases he very well could have been if he'd cared enough to ever seek out his brother _even once_ in these past seven years.

Yes, Stanley had wrecked his brother's science fair project, and whether it was an accident or not, tremendous damage had been done. Stanford had been humiliated in front of his peers, his hard work had gone unrewarded, he had lost the substantial amount money that he would have received with his scholarship, and he'd had the opportunity of getting into the school of his dreams wrongly taken away from him through no fault of his own. This hadn't been just a little mishap on Stanley's part, it had been a colossal and devastating screw-up. And no matter how desperately Stanley tried to convince himself otherwise, no matter how often he planned out a way to fix things and make it up to his brother, there was nothing he could do that would really reverse it. Stanford had every right to be angry with him for that. He was more than justified in blaming Stanley for the hardship that his temper and clumsiness had unintentionally put in his brother's way, and Stanley would even relent that it wouldn't be all that ridiculous if Stanford, after all this time, still resented him and hadn't tried to seek him out for this very reason.

But though his brother's hatred of him may not have been unwarranted, the fact that he'd apparently still clung to this grievance even unto this day, did reveal something inherently self-serving about his priorities. Namely, that he was putting his own hurt and anger over an incident that had happened years ago before the wellbeing of his own brother; a brother who, despite his many, many failings, truly was doing everything in his power to try and repair the damage he had caused. To Stanford, Stanley was less important than the pain that he had wrought, less meaningful than Stanford's own personal sense of pride. It was a stark reality that Stanley couldn't really deny even when he was feeling the most affectionately nostalgic about his brother.

So, if he wasn't doing this for the sake of all the good times that the two of them had shared in past, or really out of a sense of guilt or feeling that he owed Stanford something, and if he wasn't necessarily doing this out of a certainty that Stanford would one day forgive him, or that his own life would one day be fixed and made better because of this, then why? Why did he keep putting himself through so much pain? Why was he wasting so much of his energy and life away? Why was he enduring sacrifice after sacrifice for the sake of someone who didn't seem to be willing to do the same for him right now? Why did he always put his brother _first_ in his life, when he was most likely _second_ in Stanford's life if not even lower?

Stanley sat there quietly for a moment or two thinking all of this over, gazing down into the sand while his fingers absentmindedly brushed over the broken lens of the compass and occasionally caught on the sharp edges of the glass. When the answer finally did come to him, it was like a cold and bitter sunrise finally breaking free from the starlit clutches of a clear winter night. It left him feeling awed by the simplicity of it, and yet at the same time, slightly empty and unsatisfied for the lack of warmth or comfort that it gave.

The fact of the matter was that Stanley loved his brother. He loved him, more than he loved himself. And even if Stanford never again gave him the forgiveness or companionship that he so desperately desired, his feelings on this still weren't going to change. Even if his brother's compass was always pointing elsewhere, Stanley's would ever and unfailingly be pointed towards him. That was just the way Stanley's heart had been made, and he couldn't really help that.

"No. This doesn't belong to me." Stanley finally murmured in answer to his brother's earlier question. The deceleration made his chest heavy with a somber certainty, an exhausting truth that couldn't be escaped even if he'd wanted to try.

Stan put the hand that wasn't holding the compass onto the ground to brace for the movement he was about to attempt, and then with a surprising ease, pushed himself up into a standing position. His head swam a little with the sudden shift in height, and he scrunched his eyes up to force away the black spots that were jerkily gliding across his field of vision as he stumbled around in the soft sand. Slowly, and with all the tipsy grace of a young man walking back home from a bar on his twenty-first birthday, Stanley made his way over to where his brother was waiting patiently for him. Stanford's eyebrows furrowed and then rose into his hairline as he observed his twin's wobbling progress, but aside from that slight change in expression and a tiny, almost defensive, alteration in his stance, he didn't move any closer or retreat any further away.

"Here." Stanley shuffled to a halt once he'd made it to the point where he was only a few feet away from his brother, and offered up the compass for him to take. "This is yours remember. It was given to you. I thought it… I thought it was meant for both of us, but I was wrong. It was really only ever meant to be for you." Stanley let a halfhearted, worn smile lurch its way onto his face. "Besides, you said that you were trying to find me weren't ya? You…I remember you saying that. Said you were tryin' to locate me or somethin'. I don't really see how you'll be able to do that if you don't have this, though."

Stanford's eyes lit up a little, and he nodded. "Hmm. Yes, I was having some difficulty finding where you were earlier in all that fog, and if I'm recalling things correctly, you seemed very insistent that I use this compass to find you back there too. Why is that?

The small light that had warmed onto Stanley's face drained away again, and he could feel a gentle pressure building up in the backs of his eyes as he looked into his brother's clear and focused gaze. "Honestly, if you can't find me using this, then… then I'm not too sure that I want you findn' me at all. I just… I just don't think I can take that right now. Not on top of everything else."

Stanford let his eyes fall down to the brass instrument before sliding his cool, steady hands against his brother's scabbed, trembling ones, and easing the compass from his slack grip. He then stared back up into Stanley's face and seemed to study it very earnestly for a few moments.

"Who are you?"

The query caught Stanley off guard, and he blinked in a sluggish disorientation before drawing his brows tightly together and letting out a huff of heated exasperation. "Whadya mean. Is this supposed to be some sort of joke or somethin'? You can't actually be sayin' that ya don't recognize me-"

"No, no." Stanford briskly interrupted, as he held up a pacifying hand. "You misunderstand. I'm not saying that I don't recognize you. It's just that when you showed up in my dreams twice before, you never formally introduced yourself." His eyes darted to the side quickly as if he were considering something, before he asked, "Am I… correct in assuming that you're some kind of entity or presence that's haunting this artifact?" Stanford lightly rattled the compass grasped in his other six-fingered hand for emphasis.

"Wha-What? Are you… what?!"

"Because if that's the case, then I have to apologize. I received this as a gift from one of my old teachers over a decade ago, and I honestly had no idea that it worked the way it did due to a spirit being housed within it. Actually, given the inscriptions on the back, I had always assumed that there was some sort of alchemic equation that- Well, never mind. The point I'm trying to get at, is that I didn't know that something was being held in here against its will, and if that's the reason that you've persisted in contacting me in my dreams then I promise that I can do something to help your situation. Due to umm… certain reasons that I don't intend to disclose I've been doing a lot of research on possession and exorcisms lately, so this kind of thing is really right up my alley. I'll have you out of here and put your soul to rest in no time, trust me."

"No, I… you…" Stanley shook his head as though it would help him to dispel the murky confusion that seemed to be obstructing their conversation, and then let out a delirious, shaky laugh. "T-this is a dream… that's right, I forgot for a moment. This is a dream, or hallucination, or some other freaky thing like that. I shouldn't expect for _it_ or for _you_ to make any real sense. It's just that I… I thought that I would… you know. One last time before I finally kicked the bucket, I…I wanted to tell you that I..." Stanley winced a little and trailed off despondently, burdened by the terrible weight of what he wanted to say and how simple it would be to just spit it out, but not really having the fortitude to actually go through with it. Even if he would only be talking to an illusion, to tell his brother that he loved him, that he needed him, that he was as essential to who Stanley was as the energy pulsing through his limbs and pounding wildly in his heart, and then to have to endure the long aching silence that was sure to follow, required a courage that he just didn't feel capable of producing at the moment. Instead, he let his line of sight sink down gradually like an old rickety ship taking on water, and stared into nothing.

The sound of a buoy dinged somewhere off in the distance, and Stanford cleared his throat again a little awkwardly. "I… can't help but feel as though there's something about all of this that I'm undoubtedly misunderstanding. If you would just explain yourself this time I- Look, if you don't really want my help, then why _did_ you try to contact me twice before? I don't imagine that you would've bothered with all of this unless you had something very important that you wanted to tell me."

Contacting him twice before? What was Stanford talking about? Was it maybe... the two times he had tried to make those phone calls earlier or... but no. That couldn't be it. He had hung up before he'd even said anything. How could his brother have possibly known it was him on the other end? It... it didn't really matter at this point, did it.

Stanley didn't say anything for a few seconds, just taking in what was likely to be his last sort-of-pleasant experience before he died. The deep, warm glowing light of the scarlet sun on his back, the chilled and misty breath of wind that twisted the locks of his hair and swept refreshingly against his flushed, dry skin, the dull rumble of the ocean, powerfully crashing and tossing within itself, the gulls singing sweetly overhead, and the steady creaking of a familiar swing set, these were all the things that he loved most. They were his favorite color, and sensations, and place, and sounds. And person.

The pressure that had been slowly building up within Stanley's chest began to grow unbearable, like a savage, scalding hurricane being forcibly stuffed into a small bottle and then pressing hard against the sides to demand its release. He could feel the heat of it scorching around the inside of his ribcage and burning its way up to his face and the tips of his ears. He held it off for as long as possible, till it made his chest hurt and his head feel dense and blurred, before relenting and allowing himself to do the thing he'd wanted to do most since he'd first watched the luminous rays of the setting sun pull back the shadows that had masked his brother's face. His last dying wish.

Stanley swiftly closed the distance between the two of them. He ignored Stanford's surprised gasp as he encircled his arms fiercely around his back, balling the cloth of his coat within his quivering fists and pressing his forehead hard into the nook of his twins neck and shoulder. The leaden, melancholy ache in his heart dissipated like tempestuous storm clouds melt in the sunlight, and he let out a contented sigh as his whole body relaxed and leaned heavily into his brother. Stanford didn't return the gesture, in fact, if the sudden tension and upright stiffness of his spine were anything to go by, then he seemed quite stunned by the physical interaction. But it didn't matter. For Stanley, this was enough, it was more than enough.

"I just wanted to say…" He murmured into the fabric of Stanford's shirt, his eyes closed and an easy grin spreading gently across his face. "I just wanted to say that... you need to stay safe, all right. The way my umm… you know, my subconscious or whatever was talking earlier, it made it sound like something bad might happen to you in the near future, and I… Well, the way things are looking now, it's unlikely that I'm going to be able to stick around for much longer, so I don't think I'll be able to help you out with that. I… I really want to, though. I was being stupid, wasting my dying wish or last request-thing on this. I-I should've used it to help you out somehow. I… I'm sorry." Something that sounded like a soft sob crept its way out from the back of his throat. His breath started to shudder and catch as though it were a loose string trying to pull itself through Velcro, and the tremendous, violent strength of it caused both of them to vibrate slightly. Stanley's too warm face lolled wearily on Stanford's boney shoulder while the muscles in his legs wobbled and twitched weakly beneath him. It was a good thing that he was slumping onto his brother at the moment, because if he hadn't been then he probably would have collapsed to the ground right then and there.

"So just… j-just stay safe, ok. Look out for yourself, 'cause I-I can't be there to do it for you anymore. Keep yourself safe 'cause I swear…" Stanley sniffed a little. "I swear if I see you trailing behind me on my way to the pearly gates, then I'll never forgive you. Heh, n-not that I'd end up going _that_ direction knowing me. I'd probably… probably… the other way…" Stanley petered out in a daze, too exhausted to continue any further.

"W-w-who? I-I… I… please. Who are you?" Stanford repeated the question he had asked before, but this time all traces of intent curiosity and puzzled wonder had bled out from his voice and splashed onto the ground as though some part of him had been very deeply wounded. He sounded absolutely terrified now. Stricken.

A small smile flickered its way back onto Stanley's face. "Heh. Do you really have to ask that, even now? You know who I am… Poindexter."

Stanford's breath hitched at the familiar nickname, and if his posture had seemed frozen and inflexible before, then the severity of it only doubled with his brother's softly spoken words.

Stanley allowed his eyes to slip open again and gazed down into the small space between their two chests in a comfortable, lightheaded dizziness. One of Stanford's hands was still caught in there, trapped from when he had unexpectedly ensnared his brother earlier, but it wasn't the only thing that was separating the pair of them. Clutched tightly amidst Stanford's six long fingers was the old brass compass, and the dazzling light of the dying sun shimmered and refracted off from the chipped, fractured glass with a blinding red intensity that made Stanley's cheeks flush. He looked even deeper into the compass, past the sparkling brightness of the shattered lens, and into the mechanism itself. What he saw there instantly robbed all the air from his lungs, and set his chest aflame in a slow, tender burn. The thin, warbling needle wasn't pointing north like it should have.

It was pointing to him. The needle of Stanford's compass… was aimed directly at the center of his steadily beating heart.

A noise between a choked laugh and a whimper spilled out from Stanley's dry, cracking lips, and his fists balled up even more insistently into his brother's coat. The words that he hadn't had the courage to speak before now soared throughout his entire being like the clear and vibrant ringing of a golden bell. "I-I…I love too, you stupid…y-you stupid… Heh." He didn't have any water in his body left for tears, but they started trailing their way down his cheeks anyways. They splashed down onto the small metal instrument below in the steady dripping of a summer rainstorm, and streaked across the sheer surface of the glass to fill the yawning fissure that split it down the middle. "I love you too."

"I…" Stanford's voice wavered, his body finally easing a little in his brother's viselike grip. "This is… I-I mean… I." Stanley could feel his brother's head turning up slightly as though he were peering out at something in the distance, then abruptly, his posture stiffened once again.

"GET DOWN!" His brother's alarmed shout thundered right next to Stanley's ears, and he barely had time to react before Stanford threw both of them forcibly to the left, down onto the soft and clammy sand. At the same time that they were dropping Stanley felt as though something that possessed all the power and fury of an oncoming car had brutally grazed against the back of his right side, knocking the air out of his lungs and stunning him. It was only for a few seconds, but his temporary loss of awareness and control of his limbs ended up costing him dearly. Without his hands there to break his fall, his head struck hard upon the unforgiving ground with the full force of his impact, and instead of crashing into the cushioning shore of Glass Shard Beach, he instead felt his skull give a nauseating thwack as it smashed against the stony, unyielding terrain of the of the arid desert.

Stanley gave a choked gasp in his surprise at the sudden, jarring collision and the razor sharp agony that soon after tore jaggedly into his brain. His vision swam around dangerously. For a moment, he thought that he might have glimpsed the venomous wrath of a single, malevolent yellow eye floating somewhere above him, but it blurred away before he could do anything more than take note of its presence. A glowing-hot orange wire began to drift along the outer edges of his sight, scorching the perimeter and leaving behind an encroaching darkness as pitch-black as charcoal on its way to the centers of his eyes.

There were three things that Stan was last aware of before he completely lost consciousness. The first was the hot, saffron intensity of the high noon sun above him. The second was the brightly glinting, slightly dusty brass of the compass that had rolled far enough away so that it was just out of his reach. And the third, and most distressing, was the ominously still, stiff, and heavy body of what he assumed to be his brother, that was draped across his prone form and pinning him down.


	10. Chapter 10

Author's note: Bleh, sorry that this has taken so long, my week has been super hectic. And uh... about this being only eleven chapters... Yeah, I'm just going to come right out and say it. With this being my first fanfic I haven't really gotten a good feel for how to portion the chapters out, so I'm not really sure how long it's going to be. I mean, I ended up having to split this chapter into three separate parts because the story just seemed to flow better that way. Sorry about that. Oh, and just so you know, I gave Bill a really terrible pun at the end of this chapter. Please forgive me for that, it was just such a perfect setup that I couldn't help myself.

Next chapter we get a formal introduction to someone who's been persistently showing up in the background, it shouldn't be too hard to guess who that is ;)

* * *

Chapter 10

Pain is temporary. It may last a minute, or an hour, or a day, or a year, but eventually it will subside and something else will take its place.

If I quit, however, it lasts forever. That surrender, even the smallest act of giving up, stays with me.

So when I feel like quitting, I ask myself, which would I rather live with? - Lance Armstrong

* * *

Dying of heat stroke was an absolutely awful way to go. If there had ever been the slightest doubt of this absolute and undeniable truth in Stan's mind previously, then his current circumstances had all but blown the notion completely out of the water now. Not that there was any water in his brain for the thought to be flung from, despite how desperately he may have wished otherwise.

But honestly, at this point his insatiable thirst wasn't even the most distressing factor of his oncoming demise.

Nausea, it seemed, had determined that its earlier visit hadn't been quite long or horrible enough, and was now poking its ugly head out from around the corner to cheekily wave at him as the inside of his head swam around in a whirlpool of complete and utter misery. Even with his eyes still tightly closed Stan could feel the hard ground rocking and tilting unsteadily underneath him, compelling his insides to twist and slur as they endured the revolting fluctuation of the G-forces.

And as though those two maladies in and of themselves didn't make adequately abhorrent bedfellows, the temperature of his skin, which had been gradually crisping nicely over the lengthy hours that he'd exposed himself to the severe and unrelenting force of the sun, had also now chosen this exact moment to take its revenge on his ailing body. The heat of the desert high noon had skyrocketed right past the fires of purgatory and straight into hell itself, and the resulting swelter was boiling off the flesh from his bones and cauterizing every inch of his exposed skin with a sharp and tingly numbness. It was a sort of unfeeling heat that made it seem as though the outer edges of his body were distant from the rest of him, or that they were as disconnected from detailed sensation as the hair on his head. It was an extremely drowsing state of damage that brought pain to his still waking mind at the same time that it gently tugged it away.

He wasn't even going to touch upon the wreckage of sore and aching torment on his right side that had once been a set of intact and functioning ribs. Though, given the stab wound he'd received to his left side sometime last night still stinging away, he at least now had the satisfaction of having the pain be a little more evenly distributed.

Stan groaned softly, his voice creaking lowly like the orange, rust-coated hinges of an old and dilapidated door as awareness began to creep up on him again, and cut through the shaded gloom in his mind. A faint huff of air exhaled from his blood-encrusted nostrils to stir up a fragile wisp of dust, and the mist-like particles began settling delicately within the cracks of his chafed, peeling, lips. His mouth parted slightly in preparation to attempt the art of speech.

"…..Ford." The name drained from his body in a breathy, inaudible whisper, a silent plea spoken in the deepest and blackest hours of the night.

There was no answer, save for a muted, pitched ringing echoing around between his ears.

"F-…For-…." He tried to say the name again, but his head was floating in a delicate velvety haze that made it hard to stay focused, and he forgot what he was doing halfway through. The call to return to unconsciousness sang sweetly to him in an irresistible lullaby, as tender and pleasant as the hands of his mother smoothing out his toasty warm sheets and tucking him into bed. The dim light of the lamp sitting on the nightstand cast an allaying, soft amber glow throughout his room, blurring the long shadowy fingers that gently ran through his hair and brushed across his flushed, tearstained cheeks.

'It's all right, hun.' His mother's thick New Jersey accent cooed compassionately in his ear. 'It was justa bad dream. You can go back to sleep now.'

Stan's body relaxed a little more as the wakeful tension that had seized it started to slip away again. The temptation to just do as he was told was overpoweringly compelling, and he probably would have gone along with it too if he hadn't remembered the person who was sleeping up in the bunk right above his. The person who was lying on top of him right now. The person who could have been injured by the impact, who might be hurt and in need of his aid while he was loafing around unhelpfully in this dreamy daze.

"Ghhmm… F-ford, 're you alright… ? Hmmm… 're you ok?

Again, there was no answer.

Slowly, waveringly, Stan lifted a barely cooperative hand behind him to touch the rigid, unmoving figure pressing heavily onto his back, and for a few moments he had a difficult time figuring out what it was that he was feeling. His hand awkwardly jerked to and fro in a search for something above him that felt like hair, or flesh, or the soft fabric of his brother's coat, but was he was unable to find anything so familiar or reassuring. Instead, his stiff fingers clumsily crashed against something sharp and coarse that scratched at his dry skin and sent small droplets of blood racing across his palm and trickling down the insides of his wrists.

"…Ford? Sta-…..Stanford? F-" No. He stopped himself. Whatever was pushing down into his back wasn't his brother, that was fairly obvious even in his current state of exhaustion-induced hysteria. Trying to delude himself into thinking that this thing was Stanford wouldn't do either of them any good. He needed to get a hold of his scrambling mind and pull himself together or else he wouldn't be able to be of any use to his twin at all.

But how could he… how was he supposed to… when he couldn't even move his... No.

No, no, no, no. He had to do this; he couldn't just give up! Getting ahead of himself, that was the problem. He was trying to think too far ahead. Baby steps, he needed to begin with baby steps. Something simple to start out with, like just opening his eyes maybe. If he wanted to figure out what was actually going on, or where he was, or what had happened, then opening his eyes and having a look around would be a good place to start.

Stan winced a little in misery as he attempted to pry his impossibly heavy lids from their resting places. It was as much of a struggle as it would have been to lift up a heavy sheet of metal lying flat and seamless on the ground below, and he wrestled with his incompliant eyes unsuccessfully for a long and exhausting stretch. Flashes of blurred light and bending shadows filtered between the cracks in his field of vision, and they flickered into his consciousness like a wavering, fluttering candle in a wild and twisting breeze. It was enough to make him several degrees more nauseous than he already was, and Stan couldn't help but let out a relieved wheeze when he finally managed to slam the darkness that covered his vision back into the recesses of his tired, failing mind. He took in the surroundings that had remained enshrouded in mystery since he'd woken up.

Gradually, the hazy, dim shapes that comprised the world he was in began to brighten, condense, and solidify into their true forms. The harsh, white intensity of the sun revealed to him the flat desert landscape that he'd seen when he'd first escaped the confines of the trunk earlier.

Stan let his gaze listlessly trace along the surrounding area, hoping that he could gather enough information from it to figure out what had happened in those final, quick and confusing moments that comprised his last conscious memories. The barren scenery in front of him didn't seem to be providing much in the way of clues, so with a grunt of effort he strained his neck a little in an attempt to get a glimpse whatever it was that was painfully poking into his upper back. He was somewhat surprised to find that the culprit was the top half of a broken Joshua tree, though, given the way that the spiny leaves had just cut up his hand it did at least make some sense. The broken trunk of the tree, now extended up into the air, was slanting too far out for his field of vision to continue tracking, and he feebly toiled to flip his head around to the other side, gracelessly scraping his already injured and overly sensitive nose across the dirt in the process, to peer at what had caused the wood to break. When he did so, he was greeted by the sight of a car tire resting just a foot or two away from his face.

Stan let out a quiet, raspy cry, and a sluggish wakening of fear sprinted throughout his exhausted muscles causing them to tense and the tempo of his heart rate to switched into halftime. His breath caught in his chest as though it was a thick and clinging smoke, and he waited in agonized terror for the rubber sole of the car to creep forward and crush his head under the full weight of the vehicle.

But nothing happened. The tire didn't start rolling. The car didn't come any closer.

Stan looked on in a blank and bewildered daze while his thoughts worked to free themselves from the dense and tangled mire of his mind. They finally managed after a few disorientingly slow minutes, and a long, calming exhale spilled languidly from his slack lips as he released the vice-like strain in his muscles causing him to slump fully upon the ground.

The tree. The car had backed up and crashed into the Joshua tree that was now positioned between him and his would-be doom. The force of the impact must have caused its top half to break off and splinter down onto him, and that was the reason why it was currently pressed into his back. Stan had no idea how the car might have managed to do that since the desert floor was completely level, and cars didn't tend to move on their own without some kind of sloped surface, or at least, without someone behind the wheel, but his brain was drifting in so many dizzying, hazy directions that even filling up his lungs properly was task that required a fair portion of his attention in and of itself. Overtaxing his already sluggish train of thought by attempting to solve this mystery would've been a waste of time. All that mattered was that he was alive. He was alive because Stanford had thrown his body behind this desiccated excuse for plant life, and saved him. Though… circumstances as they were, his life probably hadn't been spared for very long.

Stanford! The name swooped back into his thoughts like a flock of frantic, half-starved birds throwing themselves with a careless self-harm against the confines of his skull. Stanford. Stanford, what had happened to him? Where was he? Was he all right? Stan's eyes shot back in forth in a frenzied dizzying whirl as he tried to visually tear apart the landscape to search for his brother.

He didn't see him anywhere. Aside from himself, there didn't seem to be another living soul out on the sagebrush-covered flats. In his desperate inspection, Stan noticed that something was glinting out of the corner of his field of vision, and worked the weakened muscles in his neck furiously to turn his head towards it to get a better look at what it was that had caught his attention.

It was the compass.

The instrument was propped up against a small rock just beyond the reach of his arms, catching the radiance of the daylight in its dark, smoldering brass and reflecting it back to Stan in an apathetic, yet gentle luster. The previously fractured glass of the lens appeared to be completely healed once more, whole and seamless as though it had never had been split down the center to begin with, and Stan felt what might have been the beginnings of a worn smile struggling to lift the corners of his mouth.

"You again, huh." He attempted a spiritless laugh, but it ended up sounding and feeling a lot more like he was being choked by the sheer drought of the air in his lungs. "Thought you were jus' part of an ill-…illusion or somethin'. Though… I guess that means… Ford, he was…also jus'… H-he must have been… Right. Sor-Sorry. I…I guess I jus' wanted him to be here so badly that I started playing tricks on myself, heh. But… even if it was only a dream or whatever, it was um… you know. It was a good one. Thanks for that." Stan let out a long, drawn out sigh as his throat tightened uncomfortably.

Yes, it had been a very good dream, and that was part of the problem. Though his time wandering within the dim, eternally scarlet sunset of the imagined beach with his brother had been brief, it still returned a feeling of peace and wholeness that had become a stranger to him in these past seven years. He hadn't realized how severely he'd missed Stanford until he'd held the illusion of his brother securely in his arms, hadn't noticed how exhausted this period of exile had made him until he'd rested his weary head in the crook of Stanford's neck, hadn't perceived how bitter and empty he'd been for all this time until his heart had been made full again. And now, now that he could remember in crystal clear detail what he'd spent so long missing, he wasn't sure if he could continue to go without. Maybe the fact that he was dying wasn't such a bad thing if it meant that he wouldn't have to endure that burden of loneliness for another day.

After all, even if the idealized brother in his dreams had loved him, the two of them had now been apart for so many years that he couldn't claim to know the thoughts or feeling of the real Stanford. Hell, when they had been kids and spent almost every waking moment together he still couldn't have claimed to know what was going through his brother's big stupid brain half of the time. Unlike Stanley, who would always make sure that everyone within a ten block radius knew whenever he was upset about something, Stanford was... secretive. Reserved. He'd always had a tendency of withdrawing into himself, often refusing to truly speak his mind with anyone, even his own twin.

It was one of the reasons that Stanley couldn't help but take this extended radio silence on his brothers end as such a discouraging sign. When Stanford was bothered by something, his first reaction wasn't to directly confront the problem, or the emotions tied to it, so much as it was to just ignore the mess altogether, and he had been ignoring his brother for almost a decade now. If it hadn't happened already, then it seemed unlikely to Stanley that he would ever be forgiven for the damage that his mistake had wrought, and if that were the case, then maybe the only way to escape from the miserable wreck his life had become _would be_ through death itself.

"I… I don't know," He blearily stared at the compass, "what do you think? Does he… does he still hate me or… Maybe… maybe he really does care, but he jus' doesn't realize it. You know, like he didn't recognize me in the dream. Th-the needle was pointing to me, but he didn't even know who I was. He cares about me but… he can't see me past all the things I've done wrong, the ways I've messed up. When he looks at me he doesn't see his brother, he… he just sees… just a failure probably. Just… someone who can't do anything right and who's screwed things up for him. I-I didn't mean to do that, never wanted to hurt him, but… I don't know, 'm not makin' much sense right now. I'm a little confused is the thing. Can't really tell what's real anymore and what isn't. I mean… I… you're probably not even really here anyways, so what 'm I actually looking at, huh? You a rock or somethin'. Why 'm I even talkin' to you anyways? Rock or not, it's not like you'd be able to answer me."

But the compass did answer him.

Stan gazed passed the faultless shining of the lens, and watched as the needle of the old instrument whirled around in the kind of exasperated playfulness of someone forced to repeat an obvious truth to an asker who was already well aware of it. The thin strip of metal swiveled a little as it stopped, and then pointed steadfastly to the dark red lettering labeled NNW. It took Stan a little time to drowsily gather up the torn, mangled pieces of what might have once been a map lying around in a jumble near the base of his skull, and put together what was being suggested. When he had, he couldn't help but be overcome by a painful empty sort of hurt, swiftly followed by an ember of frustrated anger sparking up in the place just above where his heart sat and slowly warming up the rest of his chest.

It was pointing NNW, and from where he was currently that would be up towards Oregon. Oregon, where Stanford was currently living right now.

"Yeah, thanks." Stan spat out bitterly. "It's not like I don't already know where I want to be, though. It's not like that was some big mystery that needed solving. I don't have any trouble recognizin' what it is that I want, I just can't get it that's the problem! I don't… I can't jus' have it, I have to earn it back, and I'm…" He tightly closed his eyes and pressed his forehead into the dirt, overcome a sudden surge of grief that had wrenched itself from his gut like a flush of cold floodwater coming to put out the struggling heat in his chest. The pressure behind his sternum was building up unbearably in a torrid of blistering hot steam and icy breathless despair. "I-I'm too stupid to know how to get it back. I'm too rotten, and incompetent, and dishonest, and a burden, and I… I-I can't earn it."

Something between a scoff and a whimper seeped from his lips. "I want to, though. I… I wish I could. I wish there was something I could…I could do. T-there is. There is something, earning enough money to make up for what I lost him with that scholarship, but I-I just can't do it." Stan's cheeks flushed at the admittance. The shame of his own helpless and incapability caused his eyes to sting in a bitter self-loathing, and his voice trembled feebly. "I've tried. I've been trying. I've been trying, but I just keep messing up and wasting year, after year, after year. I…heh… I-I… I don't understand what's wrong with me. I don't know what's wrong with me."

An acidic, painful smile ruthlessly tore its way across Stan's face. "M-marilyn, she… she couldn't even stand bein' around me for more than six hours. My own paren-… t-they think I'm just a lying, cheating, useless good for nothing. Maybe it's time I just accepted the fact that it's not the rest of the world that's the problem. It's me. It's… it's always been me. I'm not-…I'm…" He shook his head in a weary acceptance and let out a sullen huff of air through his nose. "I'm not good enough. I'm not good enough to deserve him. I'm not good enough for him to care about me, and I never will be."

The tension in his body slumped away even more, leaving his form melancholy and lifeless on the barren desert ground. "I-I don't deserve him. I don't deserve anyone. He's my own twin brother, the person who's closer t' me, who knows me better than everyone else. If even he doesn't think I'm worth carin' about, then who possibly could?"

Stan's head crept slowly upwards again like a faded, dreary pine perking a little in the light of the early dawn, and he stared in a hopeless surrender at the unwavering needle pointing directly across the impassable distance between him and where he wanted to be; who he wanted to be with. The scarlet-tinted image of his brother's face intently studying his own flashed across his mind's eye.

'Who are you?'

"I'm your brother Poindexter. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

The surrounding desert was deathly silent. There was no answer.

Stan watched the compass expectantly, still doubting, still looking to find any excuse to just throw in the towel and give in to the infinitely easier path that death was presenting to him. But the needle of the antique, brass compass remained steadfast, even now. It didn't wobble. It didn't falter. It didn't spin or turn to point in another direction.

"Well, I guess it means somethin' to me, anyways."

Stan sighed deeply, and a mirthless, but acquiescing, smile softened away the anger and misery that had previously overtaken his features. A tired determination began to sink into his bones like the tall mast of a ship descending into the curve of the horizon. "I guess you're right. Even if I'm not worth fussin' about, even if all I've ever done for Ford is cause him trouble, I… I-I want to do better for him. I wanna be there if he needs me, even if it's just for something small. Even if Ford's not the type to make mistakes, even if there's probably nothing I can do to help him… I want to be there as a safety net if he ever does stumble and needs someone there to catch him. If I can just do… maybe do one thing right in my life, I want it to be that, 'nd…" The chilling water in his chest receded again as the tides retreat with the turn of the moon, and his heart started painfully scorching in a low, dark blue burn.

"And I can't do that if I die here!" Stan's right hand shot outwards with a wild and furious energy as it clawed itself into the dirt in front of him. He gave a small grunt of determination and panted heavily as his body began to lurch itself out from underneath the top of the tree that was pinning him down, inch by inch, heedless to the protests of his screaming muscles and aching head. The razor-sharp leaves of the desert plant scraped deeply into his back, tearing his shirt to shreds and releasing a steady stream of warm blood. The shallow scratches marked his progress like red lines on a ruler. His vision swam and blurred with the exhausting force of his effort, but Stan didn't allow himself to stop or catch his breath. The Light that had been captured and held within the compass was shimmering, quaking in cadence with the fire surging throughout his head, chest, and limbs, and it drove him forward with a maddening purpose and intensity. He reached out his hand to grasp at the small brass antique, slowly crawling his way, closer, and closer, and closer, his fingers spreading out and curling slightly in his intent to ensnare the promise that he was making to himself. The promise that he was making to his brother.

A large, black boot suddenly appeared within Stan's field of vision and slammed down hard on his right hand. A rasping, wheezing cry ripped itself from his lungs as the bones creaked and cracked under the acute pressure. His dislocated thumb squealed in agony.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me right now. WHY ARE YOU STILL ALIVE?!" Stanford's warped and irate voice echoed chillingly from somewhere above him, and the heel of the boot twisted itself and ground down even more deeply. For a few moments, Stan could only gasp and choke from the shock of the harsh pain. "Boy, you'd think that running a guy over with a car would be enough to put him out of his misery for good, but you just keep crawling away from death like some kinda masochistic cockroach or something. Are you really so incapable of realizing when you're finished?"

Stan glanced up to meet the yellow eyes of his 'subconscious' looming far above his prone form. The younger, and yet somehow more unfamiliar face of his twin was twisted by menacing shadows, and his mouth slowly curved downward in a disgusted and frustrated sneer.

"Look, under different circumstances I might actually be a little impressed with your tenacity, but at the moment it's pretty annoying." The expression on his brother's face spread into a caustic and impatient grin. "After all, I'm a busy guy, and as entertaining as it is to watch you pathetically struggle for your life, I do have some other places that I really need to be right now. So, if you wouldn't mind just hurrying up and kicking the bucket already, I'd really appreciate it."

"Y-you…" Stan grit his teeth and shook his head in anger and confusion, hoping that the movement would dispel the murky, afflicted agony that was clouding and overpowering his thoughts. Hadn't he… gotten rid of this guy already? What was it still doing here, and why could Stan still see it? What even was this thing, really?

"If… 'f you're actually my 'subconscious'..." Stan ground out between his labored, faltering breaths. "'hen... then why are you trying to kill me, huh? You're saying that you're the one who tried to run me over, but h-how could you have even driven the car? I mean… yo-you're not real, so you shouldn't have been able to move it at all. Unless… 'nless this is all just an illusion too. But I, i-it feels so real… my side. I… you're… it doesn't… just a hallucination, so you can't…."

"Whoa there buddy." His 'subconscious' interrupted, its smile curling into something more genuinely venomous as it held up a pacifying hand. "You might want to slow down before you blow a fuse or something. You've been telling yourself that all of this is happening in your head, remember?" It tapped the side of his brothers temple for emphasis. "So don't stress yourself out too much trying to make sense of it. As for why I'm attempting to finish you off in the first place…"

It shrugged its shoulders. "Meh. Honestly, it's not like this is personal or anything, I just don't want you getting in the way of the future plans I have for your brother is all. And hey, it's not like I didn't give you any other options either. Heck, I even offered to help you out of this mess and save you from your untimely demise, if you would've just gone along with what I'd asked and kept away from Stanford for the rest of eternity. Yeah, that's right, it could've actually been that simple. I could've driven you out of here _hours ago_. We could be chilling out at some local bar right now instead of just sitting here and waiting for you to finally expire, sipping a few margaritas, shooting the breeze, talking trash your incredibly naïve and easily influenced brother, maybe even planning a party for when the end of the world gets here in a few years, it would have been a blast. But no. No, you just couldn't stand the thought of 'abandoning' him even though he obviously has no qualms about leaving you behind in the dust. Even though he hasn't spoken to you in years because clearly everything else that's going on in his life has taken a higher priority than figuring out whatever's happened to his loser of a brother."

"You…y-you're wrong."

The imitation of Stanford's smile now twisted itself into something especially cruel. "Heh. Am I now? Tell me Stanley, why _hasn't_ your brother tried looking for you yet? If he _actually_ cared about your well-being, if your life was worth even half as much to him, as his life is to you, do you really think that he'd continue to hold onto this little grudge even after all this time. Face it, you just don't mean that much to him, and you never have, and you never will. Your imbecilic stubbornness and blind loyalty have screwed you over even more than they've screwed me over, and that's really saying something."

"H-he… the… " Stan glanced over to the compass. The memory of needle pointing to him while the brass instrument had been tucked between their two chests and enclosed within his brother's six fingers, set his heart beating in a steady and sure rhythm. He closed his dry lips together firmly. His brother was, and had been, aloof and angry with him for a lot longer than he should have been, even accounting for the severity of Stanley's mistake, but it didn't mean that his life was worthless or unimportant to Stanford. And now that it was someone else saying it instead of his own terrified insecurity, he was able to see that clearly. Even if everything having to do with the beach lit by the crimson light of the dying sun had just been a dream, even if all of his interactions with Stanford had been imagined products of his own desperate wishing, despite the creeping doubts that persistently plagued him, he knew deep down, at his very center, that all of that had been based off from something that was inherently true. He didn't need to defend himself against this thing's accusations. In this case at least, he knew what was real, and what wasn't.

His 'subconscious' didn't seem to notice that it had temporally lost its captive audience's attention. "So, now that you've become a thorn in my side and ruined my schedule for today, you've forced me to resort to plan B, which just so happens to involve your immediate demise. When you think about it that way, the responsibility for the outcome of this situation really doesn't rest on _my_ shoulders. I _tried_ to present you with an alternative that would have been mutually beneficial for both of us, but you just wouldn't listen. You might want to take this moment to kiss your life goodbye while you still can, because you're going to die here Stanley, and you don't have anyone but yourself to blame for that." The heel of the boot punctuated the end of the sentence by once again grinding itself down into the bones of Stan's hand, causing another hoarse scream to erupt from his lips.

"And as for you." Stanford's voice took on a more sinister and offended note, and the yellow eyes seemed to lift up a little to glare in absolute contempt at something, or someone, that was beyond Stan's field of vision. "You can't even _begin_ to imagine what you almost cost me with that little stunt you pulled back there, and I promise you that you're not going to get away with that scot-free either. You want to play with the big boys, fine then. The next opportunity I get to pilot Sixer's body around, I'm going to make sure that he puts a nice biiiiiiiiig scratch right through the runic circle on your back. Let's see how high and mighty you are without those magic symbols powering your stupid little needle."

Stan's 'subconscious' turned its head back down to once more fix its piercing gaze upon the wreck of a man below. Stan found the frosty and unaffected apathy plastered on his brother's likeness to be as haunting and unwelcoming as a bed of old rusty nails covered by a deceptive layer of pure, white snow. "So Stanley Pines, what's it gonna be. Should I waste my energy offering you another chance to take me up on my advice, meaning that you'll turn your back on Stanford for good, or should I just run you over with the car for a second time?"

He thought about spitting on the boot that was currently crushing his hand into a meat patty, but his mouth was far too dry to really even make the attempt, and even if it hadn't been, the inside of his head was spinning too dizzyingly to let him aim properly. So instead, he settled for the next best thing. Stan closed his eyes for a moment and breathed in deeply, savoring what might very well be his last middle finger to someone who was in a position of authority over him, as he carefully gathered up what little shreds remained of his waning strength. The heat of the sun seared into the back of his neck, but it felt almost cool compared to the rebellious, boiling outrage surging through his veins. Somewhere in the distance a small beetles wings were buzzing about noisily in the otherwise perfect silence.

"Well? Are you going to give me an answer, or have you done me the favor of dying alread-"

Without warning Stan quickly opened his eyes again, cutting off whatever his 'subconscious' had been about to say as he lunged forward in a reckless abandon. His left hand careened past the imitation of his brother's foot and crashed clumsily into the compass lying just beyond. The feeling of sun-warmed brass under his stiff, curling fingers, sparked a satisfied and defiant smirk that gradually smoldered its way across his face. Before the last embers of his failing energy dimmed away for good, he turned his head up to deliver a closing remark to the malevolent yellow orbs that were softly glowing in his brothers shadowed face.

"Heh, whatever the hell you _really_ are, you can take your offer 'nd shove it right back up your ass."

"So that's your final answer, huh." Stanford's brows furrowed as the thing scoffed a little. The daylight flickered slightly, and as it did, the mimicry of his brother's face dissolved away and transformed into someone with a much thinner face and darker complexion. There was a blood red mark that looked like a bullet hole resting just medial of his temple. Stan felt as though he recognized this person, but couldn't place exactly where he'd seen him before.

"Ya really think you're intimidating me ya stupid yellow whatever?" Stan spat out fiercely in a bust of bull-headed confidence. "Y-You're just an illusion, just a product of my own mind. This isn't real. You can't actually do anything to me."

"Oh, don't tell me that's your reasoning behind this decision." Stan watched on forebodingly as the heavy pressure of the boot on his right hand lifted suddenly, only to quickly smash down again on his left wrist with an even more brutal force and intensity. His aching throat choked back another raw scream as a few of the small bones gave a muffled snap under the assault, and he dug his fingers so savagely into the compass that the metal groaned under his grip. He wasn't sure why holding on to the instrument felt so important to him, but the energy in his body was so utterly and completely spent at this point, that he knew that if he released it from his grasp now then he wouldn't have the strength necessary to grab it again.

The body that the yellow eyes now inhabited shook its head in a slow, pitting condescension. "What's the matter, huh? I thought you said this wasn't real, so how come it's hurting you? Yeesh. You stupid meat-sacs are so oblivious sometimes."

The boot poised itself again, but this time it touched down lightly on the ground next to Stan instead of crashing down upon him. He gazed in a blank, pain blurred, half-lidded exhaustion as the form belonging to the shining golden presence turned away from him, and began stiffly and awkwardly walking back towards the car as though all of its joints had been coated in a thin film of ice.

"Well…" The unfamiliar, increasingly high-pitched voice intoned, fading gradually as it moved farther and farther away from Stan. "if you're so sure that this is all a dream, then you're about to get a very unpleasant wake-up call, though, maybe that's not the right phrase to use since I doubt that you'll ever be waking up from this. I have to admit, I have actually no idea how you managed to dodge me before, but this time I'll be sure to do a much more thorough job of making you into road-kill."

The footsteps of the retreating figure stopped, and a grating, chilling laughter echoed throughout the empty desert landscape as the yellow eyes turned back to him for a moment to make some sort of terrible, inside joke. "Your ex-wife might still miss you, but _my aim_ is getting better."


	11. Chapter 11

Author's note: Whew. This one took a really long time to write too. Anyways a kind of new character gets introduced in this chapter. I honestly debated with myself for a long time whether or not they should get a speaking role, but there were some things I wanted to clear up, and while this character can be a bit... obtuse in their delivery, they do manage to get the job done. Hope you enjoy.

* * *

Chapter 11

Courage and perseverance have a magical talisman, before which difficulties disappear and obstacles vanish into air. - John Quincy Adams

* * *

"Hosta la vista, Stanley Pines. Get it. You know, from the movie. Actually hang on a second, am I in the right decade for that joke to work?" The yellow-eyed, human-shaped creature shrugged its shoulders, and its disturbingly casual tone was quickly followed by a sloppy two-fingered salute and a jaw-unhingingly wide grin. The footsteps of the retreating figure began to scrape harshly across the gritty desert ground, becoming fainter and fainter as they faded away into the white noise that hung about thickly in the dry air.

For a few bone-chilling moments, every thought in Stan's head was sent careening into a terrified overdrive, splattering in a frenzy against the sides of his skull like raindrops in a hurricane as he was forced to imagine how his head was going to look when it was crushed under the rubber sole of the car tire. His death clock now seemed to be incrementally counting down, each second ticking by in time to the increasing tempo of his shallowly beating heart and the hammering of the awkwardly staggering footsteps coming from the direction of his assailant. His arms, thighs, and shoulders feebly tensed and twitched as he tried to convince them to lift themselves up and pull him into relative safety, but he couldn't even manage to get any of them more than a few centimeters off the ground before they failed him with an exhausted shudder and flopped back down into the dust. A silent cry of frustrated helplessness raced its way up from the bottom of his heaving chest, and out over his stiff, cracking tongue.

It was alright. It's alright. Its… its… Stan choked down a rising tide of lightheaded hysteria as he forced himself to reign in his franticly racing thoughts. Whatever was happening to him now, however hopeless and horrifying his situation may have seemed, it was all nothing more than an elaborate hallucination, right? T-that was right wasn't it? In fact, he was….

Stan had to clamp down on the neurotic laughter that was trying to bubble its way out of his shuddering lungs. No, no, no, it was fine. He was fine. H-he… he was… was, was, was, sure that everything since he had gotten out of the trunk _must have_ just been an illusion of some sort. There was just no other explanation that made any sense. None of it, none of it, none of it could possibly be real. It _wasn't_ real. That _thing_ was just a product of his own imagination. It couldn't touch him, couldn't possibly hurt him, couldn't run him over with the car. It was just bluffing. Bluffing.

The wave of fortifying calm brought by these thoughts didn't even get the chance to tumble halfway across the forefront of his mind, before it was swept away by the steadily throbbing mess of pulverized agony that was his left wrist and right hand.

The owner of the yellow eyes had been determined to make a point with that pain, and the message of the lesson had stuck.

This was _real_. Somehow, this was all _very, very real_.

Stan gave croaking groan of bitter desperation as his cotton-clouded mind hazily stumbled across all of the ways that his current predicament might _not_ end up sending him straight into a shallow grave. The list of options didn't take him long to go through, even with his fatigued brain struggling around at the speed of tree sap in the cold of the early morning, and none of the choices that were offered seemed particularly appealing. Even the best was going to require a good deal more humility and cleverness than Stan felt capable of producing at the moment, but it wasn't like he had much else to work with. If the owner of those eerily golden glowing slits really was going to make good on its threat to try and run him over, then Stan knew that he was far too injured, fevered, and utterly spent to successfully pull himself out of the way of the oncoming car. This was his best, and really only, bet.

As much as it made him sick to his stomach to even consider this, as much as it boiled the blood in the back of his throat to even _think_ about bargaining with the thing that had so openly insulted and menaced both Stanford and himself, for the right price Stanley was willing to sell out a little. The promise he had made to himself of bridging the rift that now separated him from his brother was surging out from the hand still tightly gripping the compass, and it moved through his veins like curling waves of melted air from a wildfire. He could feel the heat of it coming up to rest itself behind the backs of his eyes and singeing into his retinas in a sparking of furious determination. Even the fierce white swelter of the sunlight pressing down unrelentingly upon him like a glowing-hot, heavy metal slab against his skin, couldn't compare to the intensity of the scouring and scorching pressure inside of him. It was unbearable, uncontainable, and even if it wasn't quite enough to bring life back into his uncooperative limbs, it could at least push him to endure the cost that this submission would have on his pride.

The hurt, misunderstanding, and bitterness that divided the brothers currently was capable of getting better one day, Stanley had to believe that, he _did_ believe it. But it couldn't come to pass if he died here. No. He wasn't going to let things end on that lonely, heartbreakingly somber note for either of them. If that meant that he had to shave a bit off from his ego, or get his hands a little dirty, then so be it. In his line of work, it wasn't as though he'd never done anything vile, or reprehensible, or that had compromised his already minimal moral standards before. No one who'd known Stan for more than a day would ever accuse him of being a selfless altruist, and he wasn't some wide-eyed idealist by any stretch of the imagination either.

"Ugh… I… w-wait!" Stan's wheezing, muted voice struggled to pipe itself to maximum volume so that the retreating figure would be able to hear him. The creature stiffly halted its progress for a second, seemed to tilt its head as if debating something with itself, and then turned around to stare sharply back at Stan in a mixture of curiosity and impatience.

"Hang on a minute. Look, maybe we did kinda… um, you know, get off on the wrong foot before…" The screeching pain of his hand, wrist, and side protested in a burning outrage at this, but Stan did his best to grit his teeth and ignore them. It was either this or die. He had to try at least.

"B-but even though I'm not going to budge on the whole Stanford thing…" Stan's mind scrambled around through a blank fog for a moment. "… maybe… maybe there's somethin' else I can do for ya?"

"Not really." The smug reply resounded simply across the barren, sagebrush-littered space between the two, but despite the dismissiveness of the creature's answer its odd, inhuman shuffling didn't start up again. Instead, its arms folded together as its shoulders relaxed slightly, and it watched Stan with the disquieting, hungry condescension of a cat gleefully observing a mouse squirming under its claw. "But what can I say, I'm an easily entertained guy, so lets hear what you have to offer anyways."

"I…uh… y-you…" Stan couldn't hide the surprise that filtered into his voice between his shallow pants. He hadn't expected that to work as well as it did. "I… right. Heh, come on now. The-there's, um… I… there's gotta be somethin' else you want. I'd offer you a Stan vac, but I'm not sure if you'd use somethin' like that… I, uh… I'm not even quite sure who, or what you are to be honest. Ya… wanna maybe… give me a name to work with?"

The figure put its hand up to a lightly bearded narrow chin, as though considering this. Its yellow eyes flickered with conceited pleasure. "Hmmm, let me think about that for a moment… Nah."

"I could, uh d-do you want cash or… I-I don't know. Uh… maybe you want me to get rid of someone for you?"

"Yeah, yourself."

"I…look, whatever you are, I… I…" Stan closed his eyes and winced slightly. His consciousness was fading away from him again into the transfixing swirl of warm, dark shadows that crept along the outer edges of his vision. The top and bottom of his dry lips chafed against each other. He didn't feel as though he could hang on much longer. His time was running out, he needed to hurry up.

Stan opened his eyes and started up once more in a strained, croaking whisper, ignoring the way that the image of the thinly built man standing by the car in the desert landscape seemed to tilt and swim dizzyingly before him. "I… I don't think you're human, right? Tha-… I mean…that guy that you're wearin' around, I-I can't really remember who he is right now, but I think I might know him from… I … it do-doesn't matter. Sorry, sorry. Getting distracted. So… i-if you're supposed to be some kinda ghoul, or demon, or… w-what about a few years off from my life then, or… maybe I'll owe you some kind of open-ended favor in the future? Jus'… just so long as it doesn't involve hurting my brother in any way, shape, or form… I… There has to be somethin' else that you want." He blinked sluggishly as he finished weakly, "I-I'll do anything you want…"

"Ohhhhh. Nice try, but honestly you've already annoyed me so much with your bull headed stubbornness at this point, I'd be willing to kill you just out of pure spite even if I didn't have an agenda to fulfill. Anything else you can offer?"

Stan tore through his scattered thoughts to try and produce an answer, but he couldn't come up with anything before the grating voice of his adversary jarringly interrupted his efforts.

"Heh. Yeah, that's what I thought. Just give up and accept your death gracefully already. You don't have anything that I want, and you're not capable of accomplishing anything all that useful to me either. In fact, you don't seem capable of accomplishing things period, even when your heart is fully set on the task." A tight, crooked grin ripped itself across the figure's features as it threw its arms out wildly and released a cruel, spiteful scoff.

"I…y-you… You were never even considering it, were ya." Stan glared in a half-lidded, exhausted anger at the hand that was now flung out just a few inches away from the drivers side of the car, his breath coming out heavy, gasping pants that swept the ground underneath it completely clear of dust. Of course. Of course the presence behind those ruthless yellow eyes hadn't really meant to hear him out. It had just been looking for another opportunity to mock him, to make him suffer. Given its behavior thus far, he really should've seen that one coming.

"I mean…." The creature continued as though Stan hadn't spoken at all, "just take a look at your life's accomplishments right now! Worthless. Absolutely meaningless. You've been at this for, how long has it been again, more than seven years, and what exactly do you have to show for it? Nothing, that's what. You're no closer to getting all that money you promised to earn for your family than you were the very day you got sent out to complete this task in the first place. If anything, you're even further back. Face it Stanley, the reason you're so eager to cling to your poor brother like the leech that you are, the reason why you're so willing to forgive him and place such a high value on his life even when he obviously doesn't reciprocate the feelings, is because deep, deep down, you know that even the worst parts of him are worth a thousand times more than the best parts of you. And you're not the only one who knows it either. Stanford, he's just as aware of it as you are, and that's why it doesn't matter if you spend seven years barely scraping by as a wandering, homeless, grifter, or seven thousand, he's still not going to find enough value in your life to bother searching you out. At least, not until it becomes convenient for himself to do so. Almost any other way that he could possibly spend his time, even just stacking grains of sand in a pile, would still be less of a waste of his attention than giving it to you."

"W-will you… stop it. J-just shut up!" Stan's trembling voice cracked as his cheeks flushed in a fevered, ashamed anger. It was obvious by the taunting glint in the that swam in the cold glow of the golden eyes that the… demon, or whatever it was, had finally figured out that trying to verbally attack Stanford's character, or Stanley's unwavering loyalty to him, was nothing but a waste of time. No. There was a far easier, far more vulnerable target for it to unleash the full weight of its sadistic callousness upon, one in which Stan lacked the sturdy foundation he needed to truly defend against doubt. It was now striking, of course, upon the delicate nerves of Stan's abysmal self worth and core insecurities, pulling on a single fraying thread from the cloth of his ego, and watching all of his confidence and resolve unravel away into nothing.

The yellowed eyed creature put a mocking hand up next to its ear at Stan's retort, its malicious smile growing so impossibly wide across its face that it looked as though the jaw was going to fall off at any moment." Excuse me? What was that? I thought you were begging for your life. And here I was just thinking of sparing you too. If only you had managed to swallow your pride for a little longer. Oh well." It gave a chorus of bellowing laughter that shook every part of the body it was inhabiting and rang with a deafening, nauseating intensity in-between Stan's ears.

"Come on and just admit it Stanley! You're useless; a pathetic, squandered ruin of human potential. Unlike your far superior twin brother, you'll never do anything great or world changing with your life. You'll never decipher the mysteries of the universe, or accomplish anything that will earn you the respect or praise of others, or make your own parents proud of your existence. You can't even manage to avoid being a complete and utter detriment to the people that you supposedly care about, a crooked, incompetent burden that the rest of your family is embarrassed to be related to. Ha, it kinda hilarious actually. You're like the negative twelve-dollar bill, less than worthless."

With that, the figure turned towards the car again, and in a small cloud of stumbling feet and dust, eliminated the small distance between itself and the door. Its fingers settled upon the handle and lifted it up with a soft click. "By killing you, I'll actually be doing the world, and your brother, and even you, a huge favor in the long run. So maybe you can take some comfort in that, huh? See, _I really am_ a Good Samaritan."

Stan's eyes widened and the blood from his cheeks drained away in a tense, despondent dread. This was it, he thought to himself. The end. This was where the sum of all his efforts had landed him. After everything he'd been through to get out of the trunk, after he'd injured himself and spilled his own blood to keep from giving in to despair, after he'd pushed himself to endure past his limits, after he'd escaped from his earlier hallucinations, after he'd renewed his resolve to patch things up between himself and his brother… it wasn't enough. It just wasn't enough. He was now going to die via vehicular manslaughter, by the hand of some creature possessing a man who's name he couldn't remember, in the middle of the desert, while his bruised and broken body was also slowly succumbing to heatstroke.

He had failed. He had failed himself. He had failed Stanford. He was going to die here.

There was nothing he could do to stop this, and no one was going to come to his rescue.

Stan bit his cheek and released a shuddering breath out through his nose. He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead into the dirt, unwilling to be a spectator to his own death. If this was to be the time and place of his end, then he at least wanted to spend his final moments focused upon the people and places that were most important to him, not whatever preparations that monster was going through in order to seal his doom.

But the mounting of panicked sorrow swirling around in Stanley's heart didn't have long to persist, as it was jarringly interrupted by the sound of his soon to be murder choking on its own foul breath. Luck, as fickle as it was in the way that it seemed to govern Stan's life, had apparently decided to now shift the winds of fortune in his favor once more, and it filled the sails of his ship just enough to bring him out of his immediate danger.

"Ugh. Grauh. W-what's happening to this….?" There was series of muted thumps and coughs as the figure suddenly, and violently, crashed against the side of the door. It shakily struggled to regain its standing position, only to collapse back down again in a twisted, uncoordinated heap.

The muscles in Stan's neck weakly quivered for a moment as he sluggishly toiled to turn his head and get a better view the origin of what now sounded like a pelican trying to force down its lunch. His eyes traced along the path that the unsteady footsteps had made in the direction of the car, eventually coming upon the body belonging to the yellow eyes. It was stiffly doubled over now, its form kneeling into the ground and heaving as it was wracked by a fit of raspy dry hacking.

Stan couldn't help but give a small, half relived, half hysterical smirk at this. He had no idea what had halted its progress, but that wasn't going to stop him from taking pleasure in the fact that the thing which had previously stood so aloof and arrogantly over him in its cruel torment, was now curled and crumpled up like an impatient five year old's half-hearted origami project.

"Gah! Oh come on! Right now, really? Really. We're going to do this now?" The high-pitched, grating voice somehow managed to shout this without becoming any louder, and its owner made a couple more awkward attempts to right itself before giving up and trailing off into an exasperated groan. "Ah yeesh. I wonder if it's too late to get a refund on the, errk, deal I made to use this stupid thing. It hasn't even been dead for a day yet and it's already falling apart at the seams, talk about poor mileage. Humans, feh! Even when they've expired you can't rely on these meat-sacs to do anything right. Made me used up all my-urg… energy just fighting off the rigor mortis." The whole body gave another quaking shudder as though it were a house of cards about to crumble in upon itself. The arm that had been pulling on the handle of the car door went completely limp.

"C-can't hold on to it anymore. Wasted too much time trying to talk sense to Stanford's half-wit of a twin brother when I should have just gone along and killed him right off the bat. It's what I get for thinking that I could reason with someone so pathetically naïve that he believes he can still win his brother over with an apology or, gah, some measly amount of pocket change. What a complete-"

"Up yours, ya jaundice-eyed bastard!" Stan's faint, scratching voice interrupted, brimming with overconfidence despite the fact that his own situation wasn't much better off than the thing's. "You, wha-whatever you are, ya don't know the first thing about my brother, and ya know the first thing about me neither. So just shut the hell up and leave us both alone, will ya!"

"Heh. Oh that's right. Sorry, I almost forgot that you were still there for a moment" Slowly, and with all the ominous energy of a splintering wooden bridge groaning while suspended over a yawning chasm, the head belonging to the overwhelmingly inhuman presence began to turn around to face Stan. It's opaque, practically bulging amber eyes brightened in a sudden surge of controlled, calculated poison.

"Yeah, I bet you really did seein' as we're the only two idiots out here." Stan shot back testily. His mind felt as though it were floating nauseatingly high up above him, perched upon a mountaintop wreathed by foamy wisps of clouds that were blocking out the sensation of the rest of his body below him. As such, he wasn't quite able to fully register the dizzying whirl of alarm bells that were screaming at him from far down below as the figure locked eyes with him. But he did at least take note of the swell of ice-incrusted water that seemed to gush into his blood stream shortly afterward. He lay there in a slack heap, his body too utterly exhausted, sore, and spent to become tense with fear. Every muscle in every limb was lifeless and wilted in the heat, save for his eyes staring in a half lidded boldness at the creature waltzing around in a human's skin, and his aching hand still tightly gripping onto the warm, brass compass.

"Well, well ,well, I guess you should consider this your lucky day then, or… maybe not." Its voice began croaking in a low, layered reverberation, one that seemed to make the very light of the pale blue the sky dim and waver. "It looks like you're not going to get into a car accident after all, but I guess it doesn't really make that big of a difference anyways. In the state you're in, there's absolutely no way you're going to walk out of this desert alive."

The bright yellow eyes then tilted slightly and seemed to glare at something behind Stan. A strained grin grew like a tangle of needle-thin thorns across its face. "Even you won't be able to help him out this time. Don't think I don't know what your limitations are, they're written all over you. Something like you can't truly manifest itself physically in this plane like I can. You can't give him the aid he needs and you know it, so don't even bother trying."

Stan was tempted to try and look over his shoulder to figure out what, or whom, the creature was addressing, but a brief glimpse didn't reveal anything, and he felt too tired to want to fully flip himself around. It just didn't seem worth the effort at this point. "W-wha… who 're you talkin' to?"

"Hmm. Nothing you'll need to worry about." Its voice tightly murmured as its smile morphed into a threatening grimace. The inhuman presence held its malice filled gaze for a few more moments before the black slits within the toxic gold once again curved sharply downward to land upon Stanley.

"You know, when you think about it, this is actually a much bigger bummer for you than it is for me." It continued on, a sneering mixture of distain and mockery slowly settling upon its features like muck settling to the bottom of a muddy brown river. "I mean, I at least could have given you a quick and merciful death. But nope. You just weren't interested in taking the easy way out. Now it looks like you're going to spend the next few hours slowly and painfully frying till the life has been completely cooked out of you. Heh. What a wonderful victory you've earned for yourself there, and a fitting one too considering what a resilient irritation you've been to me for our brief time together. And even if you _do_ manage to survive this somehow…"

Its eyes flitted over to the compass still grasped in his hand before turning back to him and stiffly shrugging. "Well, it's not like I've really backed myself into a corner here. My plans tend to be pretty flexible. I have eyes in many places. I have friends with many faces. I keep the Pines in proper places... and that isn't going to change even if you do interfere with my current intentions for you brother. His place is wandering hopelessly lost among the stars, and yours is trapped deep under the ground. The only wiggle room you ever had was to decide whether this meant taking a nice peaceful dirt nap for the rest of eternity, or toiling, sacrificing, and tearing yourself apart for thirty years in a secret subterranean basement. And I can guarantee you, before the end, you'll have wished that you'd made the opposite choice a thousand times over, that you'd just left your brother well enough alone while you still had the chance. Because this is what you've just signed yourself up for. Three decades of loneliness and despair, half of your life flushed away for the sake of someone who would leave you to rot if your positions were reversed, who has already left you to rot as we speak. This is your fate, and once again you have no one to blame for it but yourself!"

Stan wanted to make some kind of snappy, defiant comeback at this, but the warmth within his sun flushed face suddenly spiked to an unbearable and smothering temperature. He only managed a half-aware grunt of acknowledgment before his consciousness chose to start dimming and fading in and out again in tempo to the gentle waves of heat twisting on he horizon. For a moment, the image of the small framed man leaning in a heap against the side of the car a few yards away, its glowing eyes staring menacingly at him from within its deeply shadowed face, disappeared completely behind the dark curtain of his eyelids. Stan was wholly blind to the world around him for a very long stretch, only released from the consuming blackness after a length of time too elusive for him to measure by something that made his stomach flip, and his skin crawl. He heard a loud, raspy exhale hiss from somewhere just above him as though it were only a few centimeters away. A dry breath eerily swept across the red, cracking flesh of his ear and tickled it slightly.

"I guess this is my cue to take off. Until next time, Stan Pines."

Stan gasped. An almost painful, prickling chill ran up his spine. When he managed to force his lids open again in the next moment, the body of the man was exactly where he had last seen it, a fair distance away, but now crumpled fully onto the ground. It was unmoving and absolutely lifeless, its face pressed down carelessly into the dirt.

Save for the soft sound of his own labored wheezing, the wasteland around Stan was silent and empty; as tense and forcefully quiet as though it were one of those old, half-forgotten, unexplained graveyards that people often stumble upon when they've been wandering around aimlessly for far too long. Even the natural buzz of the life within the desert seemed to be under some kind of spell, afraid of shattering the muted hush that now cupped the world uncannily within its long, twitching fingers.

He was completely alone.

'What now?'

The question rang through Stan's mind with an almost unwelcome foreboding and clarity, and he couldn't help but release a low shuddering breath as the weight it carried with it settled upon the back of his shoulders. He absentmindedly tried to shake it off, and then shifted his cheek a little on the searing hot dirt so that one of the small rocks beneath wouldn't continue to poke uncomfortably into his jaw.

The presence behind those haunting yellow eyes had been wrong about many, many things, but it had spoken correctly when it said that Stan was in no state to get out of this desert on his own. He didn't even have the strength to manage bringing himself to his hands and knees, much less into a standing position. Every part of his body was hurting, or broken, or bleeding, or too dry, or unbearably hot, or ominously unfeeling and uncooperative. And to make matters worse, his previous trials had done far more than just worn him physically.

The stress of all these strange dreams and hallucinations he was dealing with had eroded his mental soundness away to the point where he was nearly incapable of reining in his dazed, wandering thoughts; of keeping them within the confines of what was productive or helpful. Emotionally he was even worse off, constantly having his heart being yanked and torn between grief, and hope, and love, and hatred like it was an old threadbare blanket meant for one, being shared by four. In all three areas, he had long past the point of running on fumes and was now moving forward purely through the momentum of his own desperation.

It was almost as though he was just rolling, tripping, stumbling, and falling down an infinitely descending slope of this current chain of events, moving far too quickly to catch his breath or find his balance. And every time he thought he saw the base of the incline, every time that his spirits would raise in relief at an end being within his sights, every time he would think to himself 'Yes, finally! I'm almost there. I couldn't possibly go a step further. In just a moment I'll be able to rest', the bottom would suddenly drop out from beneath the cramping muscles in his feet like a trap door, only to reveal another bottom, miles and miles below, which would drop out as soon as he touched upon it as well, and so on. He had been pushed to his absolute brink, too fatigued to keep on going, but unable and, to some degree, unwilling to stop.

In a slightly less extreme and sudden way, it was what the past seven years of exile had felt like as well. The biggest difference between the two being that with the latter, he hadn't been trying to run downwards. No, it was just the opposite. He'd been frantically racing upwards instead, attempting to claw his way to higher ground without anything like a high school diploma, or even family he could call upon, to help hold him steady on the slippery, constantly shifting slope. And despite all his efforts, despite all his small victories, and numerous attempts, and self-assurances, he still found himself sliding down lower and lower anyways.

Continually facing towards his goals only to fail and sink further away from them instead, or to turn around and look for reprieve at the bottom only to find that the bottom didn't exist, and that there was no release from his torment aside from the unthinkable. He didn't know which was worse.

The rays of the sun seared down mercilessly upon him, wave after wave of heat crashing into his hapless form with all the swelling rage and might of a bright, golden ocean. It pressed on him, melted him even more deeply into the dirt. Some part of him was dancing, frolicking, and spinning around on the sandy shore of a blindingly white beach. The cloudless sky above him flipped and began twirling itself around like a bottomless blue whirlpool. It somehow managed to be mesmerizing and nauseating at the same time.

He was so tired. He just wanted this to end, and the distinction between achieving this by walking out of this desert with his life, or just giving up and laying down to die in the dirt, was seeming less and less important with every achingly slow second that this agony dragged on.

But he couldn't… he… fo-for some reason. Something was stopping him, an oddly cool, and steady pulsing beneath his left hand.

Stanford… his brother. A young boy with bright and sensitive eyes. Eyes that had always averted down to his six fingered hands in a somber wistfulness. Except… except when he smiled. When he looked at Stanley and smiled, his eyes had always seemed to be overflowing with hope. A terrified, unsure hope perhaps, but it was there nonetheless. The eyes of the much older Stanford, the ones that had looked back at Stanley as they reflected the glowing scarlet light of the beach in his dream, they had been empty of that. They were still bright and burning with curiosity, and a love of discovery that so perfectly suited his brother, but they'd also been despondent and blank. Drained. Lacking something vital. It wasn't how they should have been. It wasn't right. He needed to… What did-what did he need to do again? He had been trying to do something, hadn't he? No…wait. Yes. That was right. Stanford, he needed to… to get himself up so he could make it back to his brother. His brother. His brother might need him, and he had to be there for when that happened.

Stan started simply. He tried moving one of the fingers on his distressingly benumbed right hand, but it didn't respond. His chest swelled and deflated grudgingly. He made a few other attempts with similarly easy movements, and still nothing seemed to want to respond. Well, nothing save for his eyelids. Odd, he didn't actually remember closing them.

Stan miserably pulled back the darkness that encompassed his vision to peer out in front of him. His left arm, cut, bruised, and bright red under the harsh light of the sun, seemed to be stretching on for miles, and miles, before him. The bright, faultless shining of the compass flickered at him from across the distance, steadily peeking through the narrow gaps in his firmly curled fingers.

The first thing Stan noticed about it was that the needle was still unfailingly pointing to the fancy crimson lettering NNW. The second thing that he noticed, once he managed to blearily blink away the hazy, lethargic gloom that was creeping its tendrils soothingly into the space between his thoughts, was that there was a large, unnaturally dark shape sitting in front of him, and just behind the compass.

It was black. As unnervingly black as the space between the stars, or a deep, inky underground cave. An utter, light-consuming void. A warped, punched hole in visual reality with no clear outline or end. Though, it somehow still appeared to be vaguely human-like in form, and perhaps kneeling down in front of him if Stan was reading the strange shape correctly. He recognized it as the same shade that had interrupted the foul intentions of the demonic, yellow-eyed creature earlier while it had been hanging up above Stan, the body it used and abused still tangled up in the sharply angled branches of the Joshua tree. It was the shadow that had appeared to him and pointed with a silent and yet somehow compelling energy, to the compass that had transitioned him from the searing landscape of the desert into the warm, ruby streaked, setting sky above the gently thundering ocean shore. It seemed more solid and real at this moment than it had even back then. And now that it was practically right next to him, Stan could make out the oddly shifting pattern of its slightly transparent edges; obscure, moving and dissolving as though its whole form was nothing more than a barely contained collection of dense, midnight smoke.

"…Stanford?" The quietly whispered name was inaudible, soundless compared to the muted ringing in Stan's own ears, but the figure before him still responded with a slow shake of its head.

"No, I am not him." It was the first time the shadow had ever spoken that Stan was aware of, and its voice was as surreal and unearthly as the rest of it. It was a breathless, raspy mummer overlaid upon something that was distant, low, and echoing; like the sound of a gentle breeze threading its way through the waving shimmer of long golden grass, layered atop the deafening, overpowering roar of a pine forest swaying in an icy winter gale.

"Though, I do not fault you for your confusion. I did deceive you earlier." The dark silhouette continued on, it's head tilting down slightly towards Stan as though it were offering an apology.

"In his heart, he knew that he was about to lose something very important to him, and the weight of that awareness plagued him ceaselessly. He looked to me, and his heart told me the direction I was to point in, and I did so. But I was unable to identify for him what it was that he was searching for, as such is not my function. He couldn't see clearly and refused to be moved until his vision was unclouded, so I did what I could to grant him more time. I traversed between one of the memories that the two of you share, the day that I passed into your brother's possession and you both first read the inscriptions upon my back. I used this to gain a foothold within your mind, and from there, took your brother's shape within the dream I sparked in order to awaken you from a slumber that would have otherwise marked your death. It seems I am becoming more proficient in my imitations since you roused almost immediately."

"You mean…the…whe-when…when we were kids. You're talkin' about that dream when I was… still…" Stan blinked slowly for a moment. "Still in the trunk…" He trailed off.

His stuttering train of thought was doing a remarkable job of keeping up with the surrealness of the situation, not to bother mentioning the utter nonsense that was being said. The hardest part by far was trying to figure out what the strange voice was trying to communicate in the first place. Its voice was so absolutely foreign and undecipherable that he probably would've had a difficult time understanding it even if he'd had his full wit at his disposal.

But… there was also a crystal clear implication that he _was_ able to grasp onto, even if he didn't fully comprehend everything that the shadow was saying. It was a breathless ache of truth in the center of his chest that made itself apparent long before his brain had sluggishly caught up.

"Heh. Yeah, I should've figured that. Course Ford wasn't really trying to look for me in…" Stan closed his eyes briefly and tried not to wince. "Don't know why I bothered gettin' my hopes up. I… I-I knew that it was just a dream anyways. Course he wasn't tryin' to find me. Just a-…just another one of these stupid hallucinations I keep havin'. D-didn't even, heh. Didn't even recognize me in that other dream either. He'll never… even if he does it unconsciously, he'll never really… Doesn't even think about me. I…I don't even occur to him. Never. Never. H-he's never going to forgive me…" His heart started pounding painfully, throbbing viciously against his sternum one beat, and then squeezing the breath out of his lungs in the next. He looked back into the compass unsteadily. Something drained out of his face leaving it hollow, and his eyes stung dryly in their sockets. "Why do I keep foolin' myself anyways?"

A soft click echoed loudly throughout the quiet of the empty desert and snapped Stan out of his dreary listlessness. The glass of the compass had shattered slightly upon its outer edge, a small lightning-like crack reaching its thin fingers hungrily towards the center of the sheer surface. Stan slacked his grip around the brass antique slightly, as though he were trying to be careful not to exacerbate the problem.

"It…it broke." He said dumbly.

The shadow didn't answer at fist. Stan couldn't help but feel as though he'd disappointed it somehow, but given that he'd just about had his fill of hallucinations for one day, he couldn't really bring himself to care all that much. A few seconds passed by before it slowly reached a pitch-black appendage out to cover the compass, along with Stan's hand, with a dark, inky mist. Stan felt something like static electricity race along his arm all the way up to his shoulder.

"There are some who are so blind to what it is they truly want that they are unable to recognize the object of their desires, even when it stands plainly before them. Others know exactly what it is that they want, and desire it so fiercely, that they have a way of seeing it in everything, even in places where they shouldn't. Both kinds of people are very easy to fool under the right set of circumstances." The dark head of the shadow seemed to tilt a little pointedly in his direction at this.

"While there is nothing wrong with caring deeply about something, or someone, I would caution against falling in love with the idea of being in love. At least to the extent where your want for the feeling surpasses whatever it is that you loved in the first place. Because when those feelings fail, when the thing you care about inevitably disappoints, the pain that follows has a way of making one forget what it is that they truly love. In that blind suffering, they are likely to cause damage to that which they previously sought so desperately to protect from harm."

The shadow then removed its limb to reveal the clear, unblemished shining of the glass again, and the needle still pointing plainly towards NNW beneath. The crack was completely gone. "No, it is not broken. You just need to allow it to heal."

Stan stared a little grimly at the now mended compass for a moment before huffing in a tired irritation. "Ya only hurt the ones you love. Right, got it. Next time I want some half-baked guru advice I'll go and get myself a fortune cookie. Look I…"

The edges of Stan's vision began darkening again, and for a few terrifying moments he was unable to untangle himself from the thick, cold wash of starless midnight that was trying to come between him and the rest of his body. He would have screamed, but he couldn't reach his voice. His mind shuddered and struggled wildly to pull itself back into the pain and heat of the desert, which seemed to be moving further and further away from him as the seconds ticked by, crashing forward in a reckless, violent onslaught of absolute panic. He tore away from the mindless flood nothingness that had wrapped its long and clammy tendrils around him, and slammed himself down into the world again. The blinding bright light that returned to his eyes was absolutely stunning and paralyzing. It pounded against his skull with all the force of a sledgehammer behind it, completely knocking the breath out of him sending his body into a spasm of hacking gasps.

"Ford… 'ord. Can't… I can't die. Please, please help me. Please."

The shadow shook its head unsympathetically. "I will tell you what I told your brother. It is beyond my ability to simply give you what you want, nor can reveal what your desire is if you do not know it yourself. My function is to point to where it is, and I can do very little aside from that."

A dark shape that Stan assumed to be a hand then uncurled a bit, and the shadow steadily pointed to the small brass instrument that was still warmly shining under Stan's palm. He almost unconsciously clenched his fingers a little more firmly around it, trying to ground and anchor himself to the only real connection that he seemed to have with his brother at the moment, and was very surprised when the sound that followed his action was that of thin plastic crumpling under a powerful pressure.

"I… I don't understand what you're… The… the compass? I… What are you? Ford… h-he mistook me for something else, mentioned somethin' 'bout a, I don't know, spirit or whatever in the compass. Is that supposed to be you? Or, um… was that Ford jus'… jus' you screwing with me again too."

"No, that was the real Stanford Pines." The otherworldly echoing of the shadow's layered voice almost sounded tired at the admittance. "Challenging as it was, as he is a stubborn man and not easily led, I did manage to direct him to where you were at least a couple of times. He also stood outside of the car trunk while you were making your final efforts to escape, though, it was only within the slightly altered version that reality which existed inside of your half-awake mind at the time. You must pardon him for not aiding you more there as I did not explain the situation to him very well. With you, I can speak simply, but as is my nature I find it difficult to be clear with those who work hard to be dishonest with themselves." Stanley couldn't help but find it a little odd that the silhouette kept continuously pointing to the compass throughout all that it was saying. The instrument itself seemed to be wavering beneath his hand like a mirage, and despite the way its appearance flickered and warped, it strangely never stopped feeling as though he was gripping a perfectly solid and real object within his fingers.

"As for what I am, yes, I am the one that your brother mistook you for. However, he was incorrect in thinking that I am any form of spirit or ghostly apparition. I would tell you plainly what I am, but to you the word would have no meaning. The most accurate comparison I can make is to liken myself to that of a computer program or an instruction manual, though, even these are not entirely correct."

Stan allowed his eyes to slip closed for a few brief seconds and then nodded wearily. "Hmmm…. Yeah, sure. Ya wanna know what I think ya really are, though?"

He raised a defiant eyebrow and set his jaw stubbornly. His eyes were unfocused, and his voice crept out from the stiff and brittle movements of his mouth in a small, breathy whisper. "I…I think you're jus' 'nother hallucination. You're not real, that's why you can't help me. You're not real. That other thing wasn't real. I bet none of this is actually real. I'm… 'm gonna wake up in my car, and all of this will have jus' been a terrible nightmare or something." The lightheaded haze in Stan's mind grew thick enough for his thoughts to choke on, and he forgot where he was for a moment. He didn't float up again thankfully, his hand was now anchoring him firmly down. But still, the temperature-less, drowsy mist was impossible to navigate through. He felt lost.

Somewhere up above him the dark silhouette made a small, almost distressed movement. It answered him a little hesitantly."To you, I suppose that might as well be true."

"Jus' a… just a nightmare is all." He muttered more to himself now than the black shadow before him. "I'm gonna… gonna wake up any minute now. And when I do, I'll look up at Ford's bunk… and he'll be lookin' back down and make faces at me, 'nd… and then he'll tell me somethin' nerdy 'bout the way dreams work or…"

Stan looked out across the bright and barren desert, his eyes dimly taking in his surroundings but not actually seeing any of it. "Ford. Ford I... where are you? Where… where is he? Where's… Ford? Stanford? Sta-Dad, where did-is he… I…"

He waited tensely for a few moments as the spinning tilt of the world sent his stomach rising up next to his lungs and brought his head crashing back down painfully into the brutally hard ground. His strained, hushed voice started cracking and failing him as he became increasingly distressed within his delusion. "Ma. Ma, please I-I've lost him, I can't…can't find Ford, I…. Please, please, I don't know where he is. I…I-I….I don't know where I am."

He looked up, and bright light of the boiling sun reached down through his eyes and stripped him of reason. He released his hold on reality completely to give into full-blown hysteria. The stream of incognizant mummers coming from Stanley started working itself into a frenzied wail as loud as the raw aching of his dry throat would allow. "Stanford! Stanford, please! Please don't leave me behind, don't leave me behind! Please don't leave, please don't let me go. Don't abandon me! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'M SORRY! PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME! I'M SORRY I…"

A gentle hand rested itself lightly upon his shoulder interrupting his delirious ramblings. Stanford was there now, kneeling in front of him. The hard glint in his eyes and cold sternness of his expression were both in stark contrast to the soft, childish shape of his face. It made him look uncanny and almost unfamiliar. "Stanley, you're losing it again. You need to wake up or you're going to die. Your brother truly does love you, and one day he will hopefully remember that, but in the mean time you must endure. If there is one thing you seem undeniably capable of, far better than many I have come across, it is that you persevere where most others would have given up long ago. Do not lose yourself yet, you are closer to the finish line than you realize. You have been so for a long while now. Why else do you think that demon was so steadfastly determined to run you over."

Stanley stared wide-eyed up at his brother, his distressed expression torn between wonder and despair. "Please. Please Ford, help me. Help me. I can-…can't do it on my own. Not-n…'m not strong enough. Not good enough. I'm not like you. 'm j-just a… just a screw up. I'm sorry 'm such a screw up. Sorry I screwed things up for you. I didn't mean to, please, please, I didn't mean to. Help me. Please, help me"

The frown on Stanford's mouth was tight, and he leveled a steely glare at his brother through his glasses before shaking his head. He jerked one of his arms to draw attention to it, the arm that had been unceasingly pointing downwards to something that was being strangled in Stanley's terrified grip. "Tell me what is that you want."

"You. I-I… I want you. I want you to be here with me. P-please don't leave me again."

"What do you want?"

"I… I just said I-"

Stanford forcefully cut his brother off, his voice as unyielding and inflexible as iron. "What do you want?"

"I-I don't-"

"What do you want?"

"If you would just-"

"What do you want?!"

"I don't know! I don't know! I don't know, ok!" Stanley couldn't choke back the exhausted, far too warm sob that racked his entire body. His voice wavered and shook like a small, frightened child's would after earning their parents wrath. "W-why are you doing this, please just help me."

But Stanford didn't answer his question. Instead he drew back his arm and then brought it down vigorously again to point at Stanley's left hand. "Yes, you do know. Look with a heart unclouded by your own preconceptions of what is and isn't, and tell me what it is that you want."

Stanley paused before answering this time. He stared helplessly at his brother for a few seconds longer, and then did his best to gather up the anemic, frenzied thoughts that were racing around in an aimless, crazed speed within his skull. The answer in his head, however, ended up lagging far behind the far quicker reply that sprung up from some strangely burning place just below his sternum.

"I want… I want you to be happy. I want you to be safe. I want to be there for you if you need me. Even if you don't… I, I just want to be there with you. For us to… to be by each others sides."

Stanford's face softened, and the corners of his mouth turned up slightly. He sighed, and looked down at Stanley in a bizarre mixture of pity and pride. "Yes, that's true. But what do you have to want first in order to get that?"

"I… I have to want to work hard, to earn the money that will fix things so you'll accept my apology."

"Even before that, what do you want?"

Stanley ran a dry, cracking tongue over his stiff lips. His hoarse voice poured out in an unregulated stream from his lungs. "Live, I want to live."

"What do you want?"

Stanley stared in a blank daze for a moment. Then the answer became as obviously visible as a match being struck up in absolute, pitch-darkness.

"Water."

Stanford's face broke out into a full grin, and he raised an eyebrow while wiggling his still pointing finger at something. Stanley forced the sporadic and disoriented movement of his field of vision to become steady, and he followed along whatever path it was that his brother had been trying to direct him down. At the end of his twin's fingertip was the compass that, even now, was securely held within Stanley's slightly trembling hand.

Except… it wasn't a compass anymore.

It was a dusty, dented, cheap plastic bottle of clear, warm water.


	12. Chapter 12

Author's note: Sorry about that mini hiatus, my midterms were an absolute nightmare to get through. Anyways my schedule should be going back to normal now, so hopefully I'll be able to keep these updates on time. In the mean time I hope you enjoy the latest chapter, it was a real beast to write.

* * *

Chapter 12

He who has a why to live can bear almost any how. - Friedrich Nietzsche

* * *

 _"Ugh, this heat is absolutely killin' me."_

 _"Eh, like you really have any room to complain. You weren't the one who had to spend the last seven hours hiding under a pile of blankets in the back seat. Heaven help me, I think I've started to develop a sense of empathy for my mother's pork enchiladas."_

 _"Yeah, well I'm also not the one who was dumb enough to think that he could embezzle almost ten grand from Jorge and get away with it scot-free. You brought all of this down on yourself, I didn't. So pipe down already will ya. I'll gripe about the damn heat all I want."_

 _"Compinche Maldita! There's no need to snap. You seem to be in an even worse mood than usual. What's the problem?"_

 _"I already told ya what the problem is, I'm burning up over here. Gah, it's got to be practically midnight by now. Why the hell is it still as hot as Satan's asscrack!?"_

 _"Meh, compared to where I grew up this isn't so bad. I mean, since we're in the desert at least we don't have to deal with the bugs and humidity making things worse."_

 _"Ugh heh, don't even mention humidity. You're gonna give me flashbacks of my time in Colombian prison. You wouldn't believe how impossible it was to get any decent shut eye in that joint, and I'm not even talking about being kept up out of the paranoia that one of my cell mates was gonna try and shiv me while I was unconscious. Nah, the worst thing by far was just how muggy and miserable the whole complex was. Not a single fan or A.C. in the place 'cept for in the guards quarters. I swear I'd only average about three hours of sleep a night while I was holed up in there. Urk, but in a way this is almost worse. I feel like I'm being baked alive here. What do ya figure the temperature is right now anyways?"_

 _"Well if I had to guess, I'd say that it's only about eighty-nine to… maybe ninety-two at the moment? But deserts can take a while to cool down, so I bet it'll be a lot better come dawn."_

 _"Yeah, you're probably right, but… Gah, I don't know. That still feels like a really long way off. There's just no way I'm gonna be able to fall asleep until it drops at least a couple of degrees. You may have gotten to loaf around all day in the back, but I've been behind the wheel since three AM this morning and I'm completely spent. All I want right now is five, or maybe six good hours of sleep. That really isn't so much to ask for, is it?"_

 _"If the heat's really bugging you that badly then why don't you try drinking some more water. That might help you to cool down a little."_

 _"Mmmh yeah, I think I left my water bottle in the front seat of the car and I don't really feel like getting up to go get it at the moment. Do ya have yours on you right now?"_

 _"Yeah alright, just let me… wait… Ah ok, here you go huevón. Catch it, catch it!"_

 _"Gah! Hey pendejo, if you're going to toss it like that why don't you actually try aiming for me instead of four feet above my head. How the hell was I supposed to grab that?"_

 _"Sorry, my hand slipped a little. But… pendejo, huh. I'm surprised that you managed to pronounce it correctly considering how you butchered my native language back when we were trying to load up supplies in Nicaragua. See Stanley, what did I tell you. We'll make a fluent Spanish speaker of you yet."_

 _"Heh, I don't need to learn it to the point where I'm fluent. I just need to know enough so that you'll stop feeling so clever when ya try to insult me to my face. And so I can insult you back appropriately."_

 _"Fair enough. Did you see where the water bottle ended up landing?"_

 _"How could I have? Some idiot decided to throw it at me when it's pitch black out here right now. I can barely see my own hand in front of my face. If I had to guess by the sound alone, I'd say that it probably landed somewhere in the sagebrush a few feet away from the Joshua tree over there."_

 _"Are you going to go and get it?"_

 _"Look buddy, you're the one who threw it all screwy so why don't you get up and go get it, huh."_

 _"Eh, if it's all the way over there then it doesn't really seem worth the effort."_

 _"Yeah, but I'm the one you accuse of being lazy, huh. Pfft. Hypocrite."_

 _"Meh, it's not such a big deal when I have another one on me anyways. Besides, I'm tired too. I'd rather just accept it as lost then try and go hunting for it in the dark. I'll tell you what though, ever since we ran into that trouble back at the gas station near the Texan border I've been shaking like crazy. I'm really hankering for a good smoke to calm my nerves a little, so how about a trade, eh? I'll give you the other water bottle in exchange for some cigs and the use of your lighter."_

 _"Sounds good to me, just so long as you actually give me the water this time instead of throwing it since you apparently can't aim for shit."_

 _"Eh, the heat really is worsening your temper. You're not going to let this go, are you. Dale cabron! It was an accident."_

 _"Shut up ya… ya… Hijo le puta."_

 _"Almost, but not quite. I believe the phrase you're actually looking for is 'hijo de puta'. Heh, good try anyways pendejo."_

 _"Shut up!"_

Francisco 'Frankie' Pedrosa. Stan remembered the name now. It was the name of the man whom Stan had been trying to sneak across the border and out of the reach of Colombia's most powerful weapon and drug cartel. The name of the man who'd been shot in the head last night by Jorge and his merry band of goons after the pair of them had been ambushed. The man who'd had his body draped across the open arms of the Joshua tree in a mock crucifixion to warn all others who would ever dare to try and cross or steal from someone as influential and ruthless Jorge. The man whose dim eyes had lifelessly stared back at Stan as he'd been knocked unconscious and forcibly stuffed into the trunk. The man who, despite being quite undeniably dead for almost twelve hours now, had just been up walking around, talking, and trying to run Stan over with a car.

The image Frankie's stiffly warped and deformed expression as the creature inhabiting his body had conversed with Stan stuck upon the edges of his mind with all the gooey and disgustingly gummy consistency of slowly drying blood. He winced a little, the corner of his mouth drawing down as he was overcome by a lightheaded mixture of grief, pity, anger, tired apathy, and a tingling fear that sent goose bumps racing across the dry, scabbing, sunburnt skin of his lower back. The water bottle that his associate had lost in the sagebrush the night before made a soft crunch as his grip around it slightly tightened.

"Though you may not have been consciously aware of it at the time, some part of you still remembered where salvation might be found and sought it out there. You were always reaching towards what it was that you needed the most, even when you were too far gone to know that you needed it. In that respect at least, you and your brother are not so different after all."

As Stanford said this his voice gradually began to split down the middle, and by the end it had stretched itself out into two slightly familiar, breathy, echoing rasps. The visage of his young and brightly smiling face was washed away in the sallow light of the high desert sun and transformed into something infinitely darker. As he faded, Stanley was allowed one last glimpse of his brother's innocently unguarded and kind expression before it was consumed by the pitch-black outline of the figure, and placed gently back into the memory from which it had been borrowed.

The grim and despairingly bitter part of Stan's mind wondered if he'd ever see a similar, perhaps slightly more world weary and wizened look, ever cross his brother's features like that one day in the future. He pondered how hopelessly stacked against him the odds were that the expression, if it did by chance reappear, might ever again be aimed in his direction of all places.

"Enough." The phantom of the compass rasped out in a stern and withdrawn hush. "I took the form that I knew you would respond to regardless of how lost you were, but now that your mind is clearer you must accept it as false and move on. You have only just escaped the madness that took you earlier. Do not allow your imagined sorrows and hurt to drag you back into its wake so quickly. You have proven yourself fully capable of conquering despair before when you were within the car trunk, have you not?"

The tone of the shadow's words then softened a little into something slightly kinder. "You have what it is that you need. You have earned it in spite of the trials you were forced to overcome, and all of the obstacles that were placed within your path. Drink now, and restore your strength."

Stanley nodded slightly, too tired at the moment to feel up to forming words. A series of coughs racked his body as he drowsily sucked in a large lungful of dusty brown air. The pressure pressing steadily behind the backs of his eyes was slowly growing even more unbearable, and it pinched painfully within the bridge of his nose.

But the… shadow, or… specter of the compass, or silhouette thingy, was right. At least, it sounded right.

Stan slowly began focusing his weary and stinging eyes on the bottle that was being crushed in his grip, doing a fairly good job of swallowing the rising lump of dejected hurt within the back of his throat in the process. A strange, yet familiar sense of determination and purpose sparked within the shallow rising and falling of his chest, and the madness that had taken him earlier was being washed away by the promise that the water nestled securely beneath his hand was quietly whispering to him.

Right then and there he knew that he should start taking the steps necessary to unscrew the cap of the bottle and bring it up to his lips to get a drink, but he didn't. He couldn't. Not yet.

"Mmmh… Th-the… I don't… b-but the compass… where did it-" Stan had to pause for a second to catch his breath. The effort required for him to from coherent thoughts, let alone translate them through the overheated synapses of his brain and to his dry and cracked lips, left him struggling around in an uncomfortably hot daze. It was like trying to sift through several layers of suffocating, thick, warm wool blankets that were being continuously piled on top of him. The image of the dark shape and the brightly shining bottle stretched out within his field of vision was still swimming and blurring like raindrops streaking across a windshield, and he eventually had to give up any idea that it might clear on its own before simply continuing. "I was holding the compass before, where did… did it, um… go?"

The silhouette was silent at first, tilting its head to the side a little as though it were looking upon something that it hadn't expected to see; something that it wasn't quite sure what to make of.

"The object upon which my runes are inscribed, the compass, was never physically here to begin with." The dark shape explained slowly. "It couldn't have possibly been so. In reality, it was always the water bottle that you were trying to hold on to. Your own mind reconfigured it so that the water took the form of what to you represents a connection with your brother; of what to you is a reminder of the goal that you have been pushing yourself so far beyond your natural limits to achieve. Because for you, despite what you may attempt to claim otherwise, living only for yourself is simply not enough."

The dark head bowed at this, as though it were cautiously contemplating a territory that was a bit beyond the scope of its range. "If you had only seen the water bottle there and not the promise of reuniting with your brother, I can't help but wonder if you would have fought for it so desperately, or if you would have even reached out for it at all."

The figure made a strange sound then, something between the whistling creaking of wind winding through the dead branches of a leafless oak, and the flowing whisper of a stream of cool sand sliding down a gentle incline. To Stanley the noise almost seemed… somber. But before his sluggish mind could even gather the wit to comment on that, the shadow shook itself out of its own internal musings and spoke to him again. "I suppose, that isn't actually what's important right now. What is important is that you start drinking immediately. Regardless of your seemingly unconquerable tenacity in clinging to life, you are in fact on the very cusp of death, and it will claim you if you do not remedy this dire situation soon. This is something that you must do on your own. I cannot help you with it."

"Mmmh…. Right. 'k." Stanley dragged himself through the thick, cottony wall of the stunned stupor that had sprung up in his mind under the suns oppressive and suffocating swelter. He managed a couple of sluggish blinks and a listless nod of agreement at the figures advice, and then refocused his attention on the water. His unsteady gaze gradually shifted down to land upon the lightly dusted, shining plastic that sat with a firm and reassuring warmth beneath his hand. His bright red, peeling, dry fingers scraped and chaffed uncomfortably against each other as his grip curled a little more securely around his hard earned prize. The strained muscles in his arm tensed and twitched feebly in a mixture of shaky determination, relief, and dizzying apprehension.

This was it. This was the key he required to save himself. The only possible hope he had of making it out of this desert alive. The base that he needed to launch himself from in order to begin his journey to the ultimate end of where the needle of the compass had been so unwaveringly pointing. It was within his power to achieve this, to bring the neck of the bottle up to his lips and reclaim the life that the water would grant him. He could do this.

The white noise of the desert droned on in an unbroken, muted symphony, its landscape shifting and swirling around in a drowsy and mesmerizing spin that flipped the sky and the ground, one over the other in perfectly regulated tempo. Unrelenting, scorching heat from the unflinching sun above crashed down onto the blades of Stan's shoulders in a ceaseless torrent of heavy, stinging pain that stole the breath from his lungs. A whisper of faint, arid air leaked out carelessly from his partially open mouth and scratched weakly at his rough lips. The seconds ticked on lethargically, one by one, disappearing into the bright shine of the hot golden rays suspended in the crystal clear water before him, and into the dark shapeless abyss of the shadow sitting just beyond.

He needed to do something to bring the water nearer to him. He needed to spur his weary muscles into some kind of action.

But just as before, he made no efforts to bring the bottle any closer to himself. He didn't attempt to end his suffering and save his own life. He didn't try to force his stiff and unfeeling arms to lift what he had been so desperately clinging to and bring it up to his lips. He wasn't even all that excited about the prospects of letting the smooth flow of liquid pour passed the long and aching crack that now split his brittle, dry tongue in two, and down into the rest of him.

Stanley did absolutely nothing.

He couldn't. He just couldn't. No… no, he… not yet. There was still… still… not yet. Not yet, it was…There was something that he… it was… Something was bothering him.

A thought, an idea, had stretched out its roots grown in his mind like a vibrant and robust weed choking every thing else in him, even that nagging and persistent survival instinct, into utter nonexistence. There was something that was bothering him, something that was draping heavily over his floating head in a weighted blanket of softly burning purpose. Something had started sparking and reheating the now fuelless fire in his chest, and completely clearing his clouded eyes of the aimless fear that had produced such an impossible and hopeless haze in his mind earlier.

Stanley lifted his gaze again to stare in a half-lidded, unwavering focus at the midnight black shadow before him. With some effort, he managed to force his weak and whispered voice to a pitch slightly louder than the sound of his own faint pulse pounding in his ears.

"You… I… I probably… probably think you're still jus' some hallucination 'r… I don't know… something along those lines, I guess. But I, uh… I mean… I don't usually say sappy junk like this, but… thanks, and all that. Thanks for, uh, helping me when I started freaking out earlier." He couldn't help the small cough that followed this as his trembling breath desperately toiled to keep up with the dizzying stream of words pouring from his mouth. The dull pounding against the sides of his skull made it feel as though the world around his head was moving around in weightless pulses.

He didn't let it distract him, however. Not this time. There was something important that he had to say, that he had to do.

"I… thank you. When I…" He trailed off blankly for a few seconds, and the dark and dusky shape remained quiet as it patiently waited for him to collect the loose strings of whatever thought his ragged mind was trying to pull together.

"After I drink some water… 'nd w-when I'm… not so close to death anymore, you're gonna disappear again. I… Right?"

The shaded head of the opaque silhouette gave a small and serene nod at this. "Yes." It hissed softly. "That is correct. Like the physical body of the compass, I only exist within your half aware mind. Once you become fully conscious there will be no foothold upon which I can imprint myself, and I will completely vanish."

"But that thing…t-the yellow eyed freak, or demon, or whatever…" Stan shivered a little. Thin streaks of frigid, cloying ice began to spread out jaggedly into the veins within his neck at the mere memory of the toxic silted eyes and their soft golden glow casting unnatural light over the scabbed, decayed, and shadowed features of his former business associate. Cold, foreboding fingers scraped lightly upon the back of his head in a stark and polar opposite defiance to the grueling swelter of the achingly bright sun.

"When he was… was talking about scratching the back of the compass… is that you? I… I mean, will… will that actually kill ya?"

"Is that why you hesitate?" The shadow shook its head aloofly as though Stan were a small child that had uttered something charmingly silly or nonsensical. "While I have little doubt that the demon will indeed carry out its threat, you have no need to concern yourself with my well-being."

"The…th-the hell I don't." Stan ground out lowly between his struggling breaths. His cheeks flushed a little as the warm embers in the centers of his eyes fixed themselves in a singeing glare upon the figure before him, and his jaw set itself stubbornly. "Even 'f you're jus' some kinda… kinda… matter, doesn't matter. Y-you still helped me. Saved my life twice now. I…I know that 'm not exactly the most stand-up, good-guy in the world, but…. 'ven I understand the weight of a… 'f a life debt."

The owner of the eerily echoing and raspy voice set the outline of its shoulders back. It seemed to regard Stan with cool and unmoved detachment. "You owe me no debt," It stated simply, "and there is nothing that I intend to collect from you. As an entity that was never truly alive to begin with, I cannot die in any way that you would possibly find relatable. Destroying the magic runes on my back will inevitably cause my entire existence to cease, but I am not the kind of creature that regrets or mourns its own passing. I simply am, or I am not, and I attach no feelings of gain or loss to either circumstance."

Stan gave an irritated huff and had to resist the urge to wince as this grip on the bottle slightly loosened from his raw, red fingers without his consent. "Y-yeah, well 's… as someone who's always been told how worthless his life is b-by everyone 'round him, I… I don't think lives are worthless. Any lives. M-my life ain't worthless. Frankie's life w-wasn't either." His voice cracked a little on the last word. Stan allowed his eyes to slip closed for a moment as the simmering blue flames in his heart dimmed and wilted somewhat under the weight of his own doubt.

Yeah, right. A couple of crooked, thieving, lazy grifters, what the hell were they any good for? They couldn't even look out for themselves, much less anyone else. All they did was bring trouble and-

Stanley stopped himself. He didn't have the time or energy to waste on that kind of thinking.

He opened his eyes again, and the scorching fire that surged throughout him turned into something more steadfast and dark crimson as he continued on with what he'd been saying previously. Even if the vitality of his voice had been muted and drained severely, to the point where it was barely louder than the faded buzzing of some beetle's wings far off in the distance, it held no less boldness within it than it had before.

"If…even if you don't assign any gain or loss to it… 'r whatever the hell you just said, I… I do. So you… so you're u-up… I mean the compass part of you anyways, it's up with my brother, right? There's gotta be somethin' I can do to help. I'll… uh, you… 'm gonna make it up there before he kills ya, 'lright. So jus', j-just try and hang on till then. I'll make it up. Even 'f I couldn't… not with Frankie… but… but I-"

"Do not be foolish." The words of the shade were spoken more forcefully than any previously, and its overlapping voices were thrown slightly out of synch by the suddenness of its remark. "Even if you were in the peak of health instead of your current condition you still could not possibly get there in time to stop the inevitability of my destruction. The distance between here and where my physical form now resides at is simply too great. My doom is upon me, and I will meet it."

The inky black outline then drew itself up stiffly, resting between Stanley and the blinding glare of the sun behind it. Dark and smoky tendrils seemed to coil and relax within the shape before it spoke again in a more controlled and softer tone. "Were I the kind of creature that was capable of appreciating such concern, I would thank you for it. It is unnecessary, however, and you have other priorities that you must focus your energy upon. Your life is no longer in mortal danger so long as you allow yourself the water that your body requires. Cease this pointless stalling and draw your efforts to sustaining that instead."

Stanley shook his head in helpless frustration, his fevered cheek scraping harshly against the rough ground. "N-no. NO. I… I can't. Not yet. I-I… it's not jus' you, I… Stanford too. He's my brother, 'nd that thing was after him too. I wanna help him. I-I need to make sure that he's ok."

The bottomless black apparition made an odd scraping sound. If the thing had been human, Stanley might have taken the noise to be a sigh. "In the end and in spite of all my efforts, I was unable to reveal to your brother the true nature of his own heart. Regardless, while he still does not recognize that it is you which he so desperately seeks, his life is in no immediate mortal danger. The best way you can reach him now is to reclaim your strength and find another way to open his eyes."

It moved one of its limbs to gesture to the water clutched in his hand. "Drink, and live on to meet him and accomplish this one day in the future."

"Yeah, and how d' ya suppose I make him see, huh?" Stan's gravelly voice choked out in a sudden and vicious burst of acidity. The beginnings of the dark red inferno in his chest started bleeding hot air into his breath, and the light behind his eyes pulsed with a desperate flare of searing and stinging intensity.

"H-how am I supposed to make him realize anythin' when he doesn't even see his brother when he looks at me. I can't help him if he won't let me in, a-and…and he's not going to. He won't because… he… he won't forgive me. I was stupid. I was stupid and I screwed him over too badly." Stan's brows drew together in a twitching reluctance as sorrow and anger warred over the expression on his face.

"H-he won't forgive me. I… I'm not an idiot. 't least, not that big 'f one. I know that I can't… can't make him." He coughed a little again and averted his perturbed gaze to the decayed and broken bits of an old tumbleweed that was resting beside his face.

"Doesn-…'oesn't work that way." He trailed off lamely.

The dark passenger within Stanley's faltering and fading field of vision was silent for a long while; its intangible lightless void of a body smoothly inching itself closer as it studied him intently. Stanley tried his hardest to hold his own glare steady under the cool and gradually increasing pressure of its presence, fighting against the feather-light sensation that overtook his guts as the figure seemed to look straight into the center of his entire being.

"You have a goal, don't you?" It whispered softly, its tone reserved and puzzled. "Were you not just promising earlier that you would try to earn enough money so that you could prove your apology genuine? You have a path that you intend to follow in order to reach him, that you have been following for the last seven years. Why is that route not still viable in your mind? Tell me, what has now changed in you."

A sudden roar of desperate, cracking laughter jarringly tore through the tense hush of the empty desert. The sore haze of exhaustion that had been persistently tugging at the edges of Stan's thoughts suddenly swelled up like a balloon and then split down the middle completely. A dim and bitter heat was released into the sluggish stirrings of his mind, and it lit within him an energetic and manic despair that gave a frightening energy to his shaking voice. He felt as though the hidden corners of his heart had been delicately glazed in thick gasoline and then viciously struck upon by and old and splintering match. He was hot and weightless. Wild and unregulated.

"Heh, is… is that supposed to be some kinda joke or somethin'? W-what the hell kinda magical compass 'r ya supposed to be anyways! You… do you… y-you really think I ever put any stock in that money garbage when my old man first told me to-… heh. Unbelievable. Unbelievable. Heh. You really think I don't know that it isn't actually going to solve anything. IT'S PAPER! It's just goddamn strips of green, dyed paper! If he doesn't see me now, if he doe-doesn't… then… t-then it doesn't make a difference, does it. All of the money in the world isn't going to c-change that! It won't make him actually accept me." Stan shook his head dismissively as an uncomfortable smile stretched itself tightly across his face.

"The only reason, only-only reason I clung to it at all is 'cause it was all that I had. A-all that I had. Didn't have anything else. Didn't have anyone else. No one. I'm always alone nowadays. There's no one else here." Stan's voice petered off into a listless nothingness and was quickly followed by the sound of dry hacking as he choked on the aching and scorching sting of his own breath for a few seconds. The fire within him seemed to be burning through the air in his lungs, leaving him reeling under a sudden spell of dizziness.

Another round of corrosive laughter started seeping out from his dust-caked and peeling lips like scalding water boiling over from a long unattended pot. The parts of Stan's body that hadn't been rendered unresponsive by the consuming, destructive force of the sun's desiccating rays shook frantically along with his heaving chest. "It w-was, was the only hope that I had. Because if earning enough money doesn't buy back my family's love, then I don't know what will. Don't, d-don't know what will. What will? Nothing. Nothing will. Maybe…maybe none of them ever really gave a damn 'bout me in the first place. Useless. Weak. Just want to get rid of him. Heh. I don't… don't know. Don't know."

As swiftly as the horrifyingly severe energy had first washed over him, it now drained away from his body and mind again just as rapidly. Exhaustion tugged with an aching persistence upon his heavy eyelids, and Stan couldn't resist the urge to let them gently draw closed for a moment. Grief, hopeless, lightless, deep abyss, bottom of the ocean grief, raked its blunt and forceful hands across the lines of his face. It morphed his expression into the kind of worn grimace that spoke of a profound and rotting pain, a twisted root of decaying hurt.

"No, that's not right." He spoke a little more softly this time, though no less scathingly. "I've... I-I've always known that it's not actually going to work in the long run. It… couldn't. That's why I-I…"

Stan stopped himself from saying anything more and curled a little into the uncomfortable heat rolling like a bubbling ocean of thick, torrid blood within him. The terrible reality of the truth caused his lips to obstinately stick together, and he hoped that the savage pressure of his energy might completely die out before it forced him to expose the source of the infection; the sickness that had inflamed and swelled the tissue of his heart ever since Stanford had been called alone into the principals office seven years ago. Stanley usually had no problem letting his complaints be heard by everyone and anyone who was willing to listen, but this was… different. It was such a sensitive, sore and vulnerable section of himself, one that had been shredded to a stinging pulp so thoroughly, that had he been in a slightly more sound state of mind he would have preferred to suffer in silence rather than risk airing it out in the open.

"It's w-why I haven't really been trying all this time." He finally whispered faintly as he looked on in bitter contempt at the bright shining of the water dancing in his slightly shaking hand.

"Why I've…why I've just sort of been ok with failing over and over again. Cause I-I know… I know that once I do make enough money it won't give me what I want. It's a false hope, it always has been. B-but…" Stan's lips forced themselves closed again. He didn't want to say anything more. He'd never been this honest in his life. Not with his parents. Not with Stanford. Not even with himself. And now, now he was confessing all of this to a complete stranger. To some… spirit, or magic that might not actually be real to begin with.

What the hell was he doing? Why was he doing this to himself?

A movement from the dark shape above him caught Stan's attention. It seemed to almost be… lowering itself. Bringing its shadowed form down to his level as much as it could. It didn't say anything at first, didn't try to break the silence, but nonetheless Stanley found the smoothly gliding and surreal gesture to be somewhat comforting.

"Speak clearly." The phantom then commanded after a few seconds of quiet had stretched between them. The black smoke of its body tentatively retreated back to reveal some lighter shapes hidden within its form. "Say what you truly intend to. Or am I to assume that you still find the future to be so desolate that you cannot possibly imagine it getting any better; that you would rather cling to past memories of your desire than the actual person himself."

Stan averted his eyes for a moment before allowing himself to look deeply within the somehow existent and nonexistent outer edges of the shade's inky form. He saw two separate images of his brother wrapped securely within the murky darkness. One was wearing the childish and openly loving gaze that Stanley had grown familiar and unfamiliar with almost a lifetime ago. The other's face was saturated by the closed off, guarded, and worn expression that Stanley had observed while the pair had met upon the crimson-tinged beach in that odd dream. Both lay beside of each other, and then gradually began to overlap. The older version of his brother completely overtook the younger one, overpowering it as the beam of a flashlight is washed out by the powerful glare of the sun.

Stanley let his gaze fall again and turned away from the encompassing darkness of the shade, disliking the message that it was attempting to convey even as he knew it to be right. He was dimly surprised upon doing this to find that the area around him had transformed seamlessly into a reoccurring place within his dreams. He was on a boat again, the Stan O'War in the middle of a softly glowing sea.

A small collection of albatross, a twitching and sickly mass of grimy plumage, were shuffling around the deck in a sort of finicky displeasure. They pecked and picked at the splintering wooden hull, as well as other objects that were scattered upon and crammed into the skeleton of the decaying ship. Old toys, drawings, and beach junk that he and his brother had created, discovered, and played with together were sticking out at odd angles from between the wooden slats, and they made perfect targets for the curious maliciousness of Stan's feathered shipmates. He dully observed one of them tearing apart a frayed paper with his and Stanford's handprints on it for a few moments before something else caught his attention.

Far above Stan, almost beyond the reach of his sight till they drew closer, was another flock of birds. They were somewhat similar looking to the sea-born avian, especially from a distance, but altogether entirely different creatures upon closer inspection. Unlike the dried out husks of the birds beside him, the ones flying overhead were bight and full of life. The sunlight seemed to catch within the span of their wings.

Then they descend from the light blue sky in an almost silent hurricane. Doves, deceptively gentle, swirled down upon the spot where he lay and enclosed him within the eye of a pearly alabaster storm. The anemic, squawking albatross began to fly in a blind panic, crashing into the sides of Stanley's ship with a careless and destructive recklessness. It was pure snow-white bird verses pure snow-white bird, but it really wasn't a fight so much as it was a massacre. The albatross were frail, and decrepit, and held together by crusty clumpings of dust and feathers. All it took was one quick slash of sharp scaly claws, and the shrieking birds were dispelled in trembling whips of pale smoke and powdery mist. And as they disappeared, the past relics of his childhood slipped also off from the ship and sunk deeply into the waiting arms of the sea below. The ship in his heart was still being tossed around the rough and wild waves of the ocean, but the deck was at least now a little more clear and steady.

"No." Stan's tired voice whispered softly, and the illusion around him immediately dissipated at his protest. "N-no, that isn't what I… you don't get it. That's not what… I… I get that he's not the same person, that things will never go back to the way they were. Wouldn't have been able to wake up when ya first met me 'f I didn't already know that."

And he really did know that.

Given everything that had already happened between them… yes, it was unlikely that Stanford would ever fully regain his trust in him. He wasn't even sure if he himself would be capable of feeling that he could really rely on his brother for anything again. Even if they were eventually able to patch things up, it was impossible for the dynamics between them to ever truly be the same as they had been when they were kids. Forgiveness didn't make time move backward or completely erase past hurts from memory, and both of them were likely very different people than they had been seven years ago.

But maybe... maybe they could one day get to the point where they knew each other again.

"It's… it's not what 'm tryin' to say." He murmured.

"Then why are you doing this?" The shadow asked sternly, though not unkindly.

Stanley took in a deep breath and let the tension in his shoulders ease somewhat. His eyes were steady and focused as he gathered up what torn shreds remained of his mind, and he continued on with what he had been rasping before. This time around, however, it was in a more constant and controlled certainty, more determined to press on even though the truth was painful.

Because if he wanted this dark figure's help, if he wanted one last chance to reach his brother in the only was that he really felt might actually succeed, it was necessary.

For Stanford's sake and for his own, it was necessary.

"It's just that… Trying to earn back that money, i-it's a false hope. I know." He murmured, stilling the slight waver that was attempting to thread its way into his voice. "But it's…it's all that I have. And even a false hope that eventually ends in painful and bitter disappointment like I know this one is eventually going to, 's still better than no hope at all. And ya…y-ya just can't live with no hope. I… I-I know that from experience, much as I wish I didn't. If you try and go at your life without any hope, ya… ya just stop caring. Ya stop caring about your family, about the world, and even about yourself. All 'f the things that made you happy before jus' don't really matter. Ya can't bring yourself to do anything because it all feels so pointless. The days just start blurring into one another and you don't even notice that they're passing because to you it feels like time is standing still. Th-the world…. Heh."

Dry stinging pricked at the corners of Stanley's eyes in a deep-seated way that he knew no amount of blinking would clear, so he didn't bother. "The world changes around you, but you're trapped."

A heavy weight settled itself within Stanley's chest at this, but oddly enough he didn't feel like he was being dragged down by it. The burden was still there, the ball of poisonous lead that had caused the fiery infection in is heart was now laid plain and out in the open, but it wasn't as overwhelming as it had been before. It was somber in the way that driving into the dark and empty streets on that terrible night seven years ago had been; away from the soft and ever distanced roar of the ocean, of his home, of his family, and his life in Glass Shard Beach New Jersey. The sudden feeling of being uprooted and left impossibly alone. But like then, the dull and desolate pain felt manageable. It just… it just was.

"And you wanna know what the worst part about all of it is?" Stan's mouth parted again and twitched slightly as though he was going to laugh, but instead the corners of his lips simply turned down in a grim acceptance. "It's that it doesn't even hurt. I-It doesn't… doesn't hurt at all. And maybe… heh, m-maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing 'f it also wasn't also guaranteed to kill ya one way or another before too long. Yeah, I… l-living with a false hope may be a lot more painful in the end, but 'f ya… if ya try to live with n-no hope at all…"

Stanley lifted his eyes again to where he assumed the silhouette's were, and the fear sorrow, bitter rage, and hurt that had molded his face before began to soften away in the stark and open honesty of his worn expression. His voice turned low and gravely.

"Then I can tell you first hand, you won't be livin' for very long."

Stanley took another deep breath, nearly choking as the harsh air scraped passed his sore throat making the muscles in his chest spasm in exhaustion. The space just behind his forehead mutedly ached. He collected up what strength remained of his will as best as he could and brought his head up to meet the shade's. His eyes shined in a hopeless, and yet somehow unwavering determination as he made his quiet request.

"All that I have's a false hope, but it doesn't have to be that way. Not… n-not now. Please. You, y-you actually have a real shot at making this work. A real hope. Stanford, h-he recognized me for a second. He rea-, he really did. If that car hadn't… if we hadn't… I… i-it could have worked. You couldn't make him realize it was me on your own, and neither can I. But together maybe we can… I… I don't know. We have to give this another shot though. Please. Please, you're the only real hope I have. I-I can't do this on my own. Please help me one last… urg, o-one last time."

At the end of his plea, the dark shape of the shade cautiously pulled itself away from Stanley. It retreated from him as though it was overwhelmed, as though it had been burned by the vehement desperation overflowing through the cracks in his failing voice. It kneeled in complete silence before him for what felt like an eternity. And then, it began to fade and flicker away into the bright and blinding light of the desert.

Stanley couldn't help the flash naked hurt that tore itself across his face.

It was leaving him. He wasn't capable of holding it here any more than he was capable of holding onto Stanford. It didn't matter that he hadn't drunk from the water bottle yet to dispel the illusory shadow. It didn't matter that he had been honest and laid his soul bare. It didn't matter that he was willing to risk his own life to try and reach his brother.

It was leaving him.

 _He_ had already left him.

It was hopeless.

The arm stretched out in front of Stanley and holding onto the water bottle like a lifeline started to tremble. His cheeks flushed more impossibly red than the sun could burn them as he was overcome by delicate tendrils of fear scraping across his joints and making them creak. His voice lost nearly all of its earlier fortitude, and wheezed out from his lips in a despondent whimper. "No, I… P-please don't go, I-"

An inky black appendage shot forward like an arrow, cutting Stanley off suddenly with a small, choking gasp. He blinked in surprise for a moment before allowing his drained gaze to track the quick movement, and he was more than a little surprised to find the shade's hand was now lying atop his own. It wasn't the one that was currently holding onto the plastic bottle, but the hand that had been crushed earlier by the puppeteered corpse of his former associate. He looked back over to where he assumed that the shadow's featureless face would be, only to find that it was jarringly close to him. Staring deeply into him now, instead of the other way around.

"Do you realize what it is that you ask of me, that you ask of yourself?" Its layered voice hissed at him, as seemingly angry as it was unsure of itself.

It retracted its dark form a little then and continued on in a much more gentle tone to deliver a reminder; a warning. "Your body has reached its limits and is about to die. You cannot go without water for any longer than you already have. It is one thing for me to form a small illusion with just you, but if I was to try and pull both you and your brother into another dream right now, you would risk your own life expiring before we even finished." It shook its head dismissively. "It would be a senseless gamble."

Stanley clenched his teeth tightly together, already so set in what he wanted to try that nothing and no one could have convinced him to do otherwise. A solemn smile started tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"I know." His throat weakly croaked out. "I know, but… senseless gambles are kinda my thing. Heh, right? And Stanford… Y-you have no idea how important he is. H-he's…he means so much to... t-to… And I'm not the only one who thinks that either. Our parents, and teachers, and everyone else too, everyone knows how important he is. The world knows how important he is. And I… I-I just want…" The heat within his chest swelled in such a painful and miserable love that he couldn't keep the ragged smile from wearing a path all the way across his face, and he shook his head slightly in exasperation with his own stupid heart.

"He's jus' worth so much more than me. Always has been. It doesn't matter what risks I'm forced to end up taking, 'r what I have to sacrifice. My brother is worth more than any risk." Stan's dry, hoarse voice raised in volume suddenly, and he fixed the shifting void before him with a steely glare. "Whatever it takes, just go ahead and do it."

The shadow stared into him for a few moments longer before abruptly turning its head away as though caught between a set of choices that it wasn't overly thrilled about. Something flashed within the black swirling mist of its face, a circle of brightly glowing letters or perhaps symbols of some sort, but it was drawn back in by the midnight gloom far too quickly for Stanley to really get a good look at it. The previously intangible weightlessness of its hand draped over his, suddenly started to feel a lot heavier. An acute shock of static electricity surged out from the point where its limb was touching his, and it sent a pulse of tingling goose bumps racing up the dry and blistering hot skin of his bright red arm.

Stanley's half-lidded eyes widened a little as he looked back at the shadow, and cracked open even further when it began shifting its appendage around to gain a tighter grip upon his hand. The dark face turned back to him then, seemingly more cool and composed than it had been previously. Its layered voice was tense and forebodingly hushed, and it rasped above him in an unfriendly, indifferent, and almost dangerous tone.

"Stanley Pines." The dry and airy characteristics of its speech ran over his name as though it were trying to gauge the meaning behind it, behind him, by mere sound alone. It gave an odd series of clicks like old gears stutteringly turning within a clock, and the noise of it echoed eerily through the oppressively hot, empty desert.

"Stanley Pines." It whispered again, this time with a little more focus behind its words. "Unlike your brother, by the measure of the world you are not a great man; not even a good one. You have a tendency to be unashamedly corrupt, lazy, reckless, dishonest, greedy, selfish, and wrathful. You make very little in the way of attempts to improve upon your own flaws, and in fact, often flaunt them about and use them as a shield from criticism just as much as you curse at them for holding you back. You have no high aspirations for yourself, no grand goals, not even a real dream for the future anymore. The sum of your life's efforts thus far have branded you as loser and a failure in the eyes the people you care most about, and it seems unlikely that you will ever genuinely change their minds on this matter."

Stan was a startled for a moment by the jarring shift in the shadow's attitude, as well as its harsh judgment of him. But like most situations in which he found himself suddenly insulted, his cynicism and wry sarcasm were lightning quick to come rearing to his defense. His brows drew together sharply and his mouth began to curve down into a sneer.

"Gee, t-thanks for that." He spat back at the silhouette, kicking up a small cloud of dust with the harsh exhale of his heated breath. His temper flared and blazed brightly in the hardened glare of his eyes. "Let me just add this to the huge list of useless and unhelpful trash you've been spewing at me this whole time. Anyone ever tell ya that you were a good motivational speaker, because being a professional liar myself I can pretty much guarantee that they were just pullin' your leg, or needle, or whatever the hell it is that you actually have!"

The dark shape of the head paused as it tilted slightly at him, and then continued on as though he hadn't said anything at all. "However, while all of those truths about you may be undeniable, what I say to you now is just as so." It's raspy voice trailed off for a moment as water on the shoreline thins out before gathering itself into a mighty wave.

"Though they may not be the kind to earn you the respect or even the acknowledgement of others, the tender and easy forgiveness of your heart, your courage, strength, loyalty, conviction, and unshakable, unconditional love, are all virtues of such quality and depth that they put the accomplishments of the great people of the world to utter shame and ruin."

Stanley's previous hotly racing thoughts ground to a crashing halt.

But the black silhouette kept going, holding his attention in a fixed focus. The grave and stern forcefulness of its voice was such that Stan couldn't find the nerve to argue against what it was saying, even if his heart didn't fully agree with it.

"The sole purpose for my existence, the functionality by which I abide and am bound by above all else, is guiding others to that which is the truest desire of their being. That I happened to preserve your life in a few instances before was merely a means to that end. As such, I should jump at the chance of leading you and your brother to each other, heedless of the danger that it might present to you."

"But you…" It paused, and the black mist within it rolled and swirled with all the watchful anticipation of a caged animal. "You move me to defy the mandate of the magic which governs me simply for the reason that I do not want to risk wasting your value. I speak fact when I say that you are of exceptional and noble worth Stanley Pines, regardless of the manner in which the world marks such things."

Stanley's eyes gradually widened in a sluggish shock at the shade's words, and his face morphed into an expression of guarded disbelief. He was accustomed to insults, mockery, vilification, and slander, and when he wasn't already encumbered by his own overwhelming doubts he could produce a million and one counters off the top of his head to ward off any potential attacks against his character.

But he had no response to this.

Genuine approval, sincere complements, they weren't something he'd ever really gotten a lot of experience dealing with.

In that way, the words the dark specter was saying now hurt him worse than its earlier condemnation ever could have. Even more than the stark and severe cruelty of the yellow-eyed creature had.

"Seeing you now as I do, I think I am beginning to understand the condition of your brother's desires far more completely." The shadow continued on, seemingly oblivious or otherwise outright ignoring the inner disquiet of its sole audience member.

"I make no claims to know what that man has done to allow him to hold such unconditional and absolute sway over the domain of your heart, but whatever it was that he did, it is undoubtedly the truest favor that he has ever done for himself. I see now how it is possible for his desire for you to be so fierce even while he is lost within the dense turmoil of his own empty self-assurances and unrestrained ambitions. It vexed me ceaselessly before that his heart and mind could be so powerfully and profoundly disharmonious with each other, but between you, the dream demon, and the unrelenting blindness that his own ego has inflicted upon him, such confusion is not just excusable, it is expected."

"I… I don't…" Stanley had to choke back his surprise as his stuttering and stumbling mind did its best to keep up with the conversation. "W-what exactly are you trying to say here? Are you… I mean, we're… are we gonna do this then? You're gonna help me get to him."

The shadow regarded him for a moment more before it's head gave a single, small, grim nod. "Much as I would prefer that you devote your remaining strength to preserving your own life, if this is truly what you wish then I will respect your decision and aid you. I make no promises that we will succeed, but I will do everything within my power to see that both of you find what it is that you are searching for. And though I know that your heart is set on this regardless of what warnings I might offer up, I feel it is only fair to tell you that the surest way for me to accomplish the task of reuniting you and your brother also has the potential to cause you grievous harm."

The tension in Stan's shoulders released in a sudden wave of relief, and he couldn't help but crack a tired smile. "Yeah, yeah I know… got it already. While we're off in lala land trying to slap some sense into Stanford, in reality I'm gonna be baking out h-here in the damn desert and probably dying of dehydration. Or somethin'. I don't got a problem with that."

"No. While that is a legitimate concern, it is not that of which I speak."

That puzzling comment made Stan raise an eyebrow. "Wait, then w-what are ya talkin' about?"

The edges of the pich-black phantom seemed to coil pensively within itself. Its dryly-whispered answer was thoughtful and… slightly hesitant. "The best and most effective way that I can see to reach you brother is through a demonstration of the heart. We need to present him with an inescapable truth; one that will persist with him beyond the scope of the mindscape; one that he will be unable to shake even as he inevitably tries to write off the dream as meaningless."

"Mmm'k." Stan hummed drowsily, doing his best to keep his focus as the scorched desert around him gave another nauseating tilt. "Right. That 'll sounds pretty good, so what's the catch?"

Dark shoulders stiffened, and the dissonant echoing of the shadow's voice rose slightly in volume as it took on a more blunt, matter-of-fact tone. "In order to do this, I intend to use you as somewhat of a prop. An example. I will need to alter your reality and inflict upon you the same sickness of the soul that has already consumed your brother. Where he has failed to conquer this, I believe that you possess the clear-hearted focus and steadfast passion necessary to succeed. The two of you seem to function in such a way that your strengths and weakness are mirror reflections of the other. Though your natures might seem similar at first glance, each of you is oriented so that you have what the other lacks. If I can show him this plainly, if I can reverse your positions and demonstrate to him why it is that his heart desires you so severely, perhaps then…"

As the scratchy musings of the specter trailed off, Stanley felt the beginnings of something bright and warm stirring in the center of his chest. It wasn't quite hope, but it was similar, and it put odd awareness and stubborn precision back into the centers of his eyes. The life sucking heat of the sun felt as though it held no sway over him anymore, not because he becoming numb to it like before, but because his will, the motivation that kept him moving forward, was stronger than the death that the merciless and scorching rays carried with them. Stronger than his own pain. He had a look about him that he hadn't worn in years; one that his mother had often claimed informed her of when he was plotting some kind of mischief. The muscles in his neck weakly twitched as he forced himself to turn his head up to the vaguely human shaped shadow that was still kneeling in a reserved grace before his prone and shaky form.

"D-do ya…" He stuttered breathlessly. "Do ya think he'll really-"

"It still might not work." The apparition cut off swiftly before he could vocalize his fragile sparking of optimism. "But I can conceive no better way of accomplishing this. Are you still sure that this is what you want to do? Are you certain that you would not rather end your suffering now and guarantee your survival by drinking your fill immediately?"

"Course I am. That's… T-that's a, uh…" Stan was forced to pause as his vision swam and tilted nauseatingly around him. The softly blurring edges of dark nothingness crept upon his view of the washed out desert landscape like night patiently stalking the footsteps of twilight. He tried blinking a little, but it didn't really help clear the image.

"It's a… a real stupid question to ask." He trailed off, dazed but no less fervent.

"Very well, but be cautious as the poison that I will flush into your heart is not strictly unpleasant by nature." The raspy voice of the lightless black silhouette was hushed now, even for it. "As is the case for most pride based afflictions of the soul, it is invigorating, empowering, influential, and addictive even as it destroys and binds you. Though you may be capable of fighting back against the damage that it causes at first, you may soon after find yourself unwilling to part with it. If held on for too long it eventually will wear you down just as completely as it has your brother, though it will deceive you into thinking that it is building you up."

A sound of metal popping and groaning temporarily distracted Stan as the frame of the car behind him protested against the full-blown wrath of the sun. When he turned back to look at the specter it had drawn itself up closely again, and when it spoke, it did so with a grave intensity.

"Listen closely, for here is where the true danger lies. If you give in to that sickness or allow it to take root in your heart, then I will be as helpless to aid you as I am in aiding him. If you resist me, I may not even be able to pull you back out from the dream. You will be lost just as he is now lost, and for you the consequences of that failure are much steeper than they are for your brother. He is not the one dying in a desert with minimal sanity intact, and he is not the one who will likely lose his life if he spends too much time asleep."

"Mmm, right. I'll try 'nd keep that in mind."

Stan let out a small gasp as the dark figures grip around his own crushed, sunburnt, and scabbing hand suddenly tightened to the point where it was breathtakingly painful. The acute soreness dispelled the last remaining clouds of sleepy haze that were meandering around the edges of his mind, as though it was a white-hot knife cutting through soft and rotted tissue. It was the most self-aware that Stanley had felt since he'd first woken up in the trunk. Like a crisp, golden dawn breaking sharply over the tempestuous and murky gloom of a wild midnight storm, the last remnants of scattered hysteria in his mind were all but completely melted away into a startling clarity.

Some of the same circular symbols that Stan had seen before started to flash red and then fade randomly within the somewhat human shaped body of the shadow as though it were a pulsing heart beat. The tempo of it quickly increased, becoming faster and faster till the whole of the apparition's form flared like the throbbing scarlet siren of a fire truck. Daylight fluctuated and warped as the sun was seemingly pulled again to a place somewhere behind Stan, but this time it was even further back so that earth's closest star was yanked completely under the horizon. The world was washed in a swiftly falling darkness. Sagebrush, rocks, and Joshua trees seemed to just blink completely out of existence, and the dry wasteland around Stan started to quake and stretch away violently in time to the powerful oscillation of the specter. He couldn't help but feel as though he was losing his balance even though he was lying unmoving on the ground. Twin raspy voices scraped loudly against Stan's eardrums, utterly drowning out the already deafening background roar of collapsing rubble and screeching, turbulent wind that now ripped through the desert.

"Stanley Pines, your love for you brother has driven you forward and granted you unyielding perseverance in spite of the seemingly impossible nature of your present circumstances. It spurred you on to break free from the metal binds that ensnared you. It gave you the raw power that you needed to overcome the car lock and open it from within. It granted you the clarity and unshakable foundations from which you were able to defy and prevail against a powerful demon. It allowed you to endue under the merciless hand of nature. It made it so that you could push passed that pain, failings, and weaknesses of your own body and soul. It even permitted you to resist death's many persistent attempts to lay claim to your life."

The shadow's other pulsing red limb jarringly twitched as it moved itself to cover the water bottle still grasped in Stan's other hand. Another small spark of electricity raced it way up his arm causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end. His half-lidded eyes widened, and his heart fluttered wildly against his sternum. He felt completely transfixed by the phantom before him, too tense to even gather the nerve to breath.

"Now I ask you to call upon that love for me one last time. Give me one more demonstration of the terrible force that serves as the fuel for your fire, and the sheer might of your uncompromising loyalty. If your brother truly is worth so much to you, then prove it and pass my final test."

The red pulsing energy suddenly stopped as did the ear-splitting din. Everything stopped. The phantom's head was overtaken by three large crimson symbols. Blackness, the empty darkness between the stars, had now utterly consumed the world around him, and the softly glowing ruby of the characters on the shade's face were the only parts of it, or anything else really, that Stanley could still actually make out. The collection of letters the specter bore this time, however, were ones that he recognized and was capable of reading.

NNW

It was one of the cardinal directions on the compass, the trajectory he would have to travel from his current location in order to reach Stanford.

North-Northwest.

The dark hand covering the water bottle gradually drew back. In the dim red lighting, Stan could just barely make out his own scarlet tinged reflection staring back at him from within the plastic.

Except… it wasn't him. Not quite.

It was a younger version of himself with a face unmarred by cuts and bruises; undamaged by the merciless swelter of the sun. Stanley looked on in confusion at his mirror image, and as it stared right back at him a slow and arrogant smirk started growing upon its face. The likeness held a certain boldness in its eyes, a cocky confidence and self-assurance that Stanley had always tried to project to the people around him but had never truly felt.

But he could tell… he could tell just from a glance the person haughtily gazing back at him from the water bottle really felt this. Something about him spoke of a rebellious power and unquestionable capability. Something about the broad posture of his shoulders commanded respect. He wasn't the kind of person you would ever see anyone call a loser or a failure. He definitely didn't have the air of someone who might ever find himself homeless, sleeping over the steering wheel by the side of the road, or in line at a soup kitchen.

He looked like someone who was destined to be a great man.

The shadow suddenly let out a hissing sound as loud and ear-splitting as if thunder had erupted right next to his head. It caused Stanley to flinch and close his eyes against it. When his eyelids cracked open again, his entire reality changed.

A wry smile stretched its way across his mouth as he peered through a strange plastic film to see the scabbed, weak, and broken form of a man lying in the gloom before him. He looked like a complete mess. Like someone had beaten him to a pulp. Like he had been through hell, gotten lost along the way, and had then decided to walk back through it again. He was a vagabond with an angry scowl set deeply into his heavily lined face. A world-weary grifter with a dull and sorrowful gaze.

"Show me why even demons fail to displace you from your brother's heart." A pair of dissonant voices rasped from all around him in the darkness. "Show me that both of you are capable of conquering even the manipulations of an ancient magic such as I."

The last thought that ran its way through Stanley's head as he stared pityingly at the wreck of a man in front of him was how glad he was that he wasn't in that guy's shoes.

Then the alarm clock beside him blared, and he woke up.


	13. Chapter 13

Author's note: I had actually originally planned to move things a bit further along in this chapter, but I kind of thought it would be a good idea to focus a little more on the world building here since I've put both of the brother's in the other's respective shoes and I wanted to flesh out how their relationship usually works under this set of circumstances. Hopefully I've still managed to keep them both reasonably in character :P

Anyways, sorry this took so long again, but the next couple chapters should be coming out a little quicker as I've already half written them. And boy are a lot of really bad things going to go down there. Consider this the calm before the storm. I'm sure that most of you will already have a bit of an idea where I'm going to be taking it after this chapter, but let's just say that Stanley's version of this situation is going to end up being a little more intense ;)

* * *

Chapter 13

Nobody trips over mountains. It is the small pebble that causes you to stumble.

Pass all the pebbles in your path and you will find you have crossed the mountain. - Author Unknown

* * *

"Stanley."

 _He was completely surrounded on all sides by an encompassing, thick, impenetrable sea of darkness. The broken body of a ragged and haggard man was lying before him in the void, arm outstretched and reaching towards where he was sitting just opposite. Stanley couldn't help but notice that this wreck of a man somewhat resembled himself, except… perhaps older._

 _Yes. If the deep and jagged lines etched into his face were anything to go by, then he was definitely older. Older and infinitely more miserable. A thin film of plastic acted as a barrier between the two of them, separating them. Dividing them into two halves._

"Hey Staaaanley. Wake up already."

The obnoxious alarm bell beside him was blaring, ringing throughout his head with all the acute and resounding clarity of a small tin hammer striking against his skull, and the sound of shuffling feet, scraping metal, and excited chatting saturated the air around him. Stanley winced a little and groaned as he drowsily toiled to turn his head over to escape the persistently irritating clamor. His cheek stuck oddly to the smooth, cool surface that was currently being used as a pillow beneath him.

 _The outline of the man was only barely visible, illuminated by some dim and unseen source of red lighting behind Stanley. The scabs, cuts, and bruises that marred his battered face were almost completely erased by the sharp, black shadows viciously slashing their way across his grim expression._

 _A low and scratchy voice echoed weakly in the empty space._

 _"Don't you dare abandon him."_

"Yeesh, ya meathead." A high-pitched feminine voice gave an annoyed sigh from somewhere just above him. The person the voice belonged to was close enough that he could smell faint traces of cigarette smoke even underneath the overpowering floral perfume. "How do ya expect to graduate from high school if you keep sleeping through all of your classes, huh?" Slim fingers partially wrapped themselves around the fabric of his shirt and started shaking him forcefully.

 _His eyes, though. His eyes burned softly in the gloom. Twin pinpricks, hard, bright, unyielding, and utterly determined, peeked out from within the dark shade that rested around the hollows of his sockets. They shined with an eerie and unnatural light that made him look dangerous, menacing, and even ghoulish; a light that made the worn and tired impression that his frayed state suggested, melt away into something unbearably hot and fierce. It was like looking at a pair of furious white embers._

 _"If you abandon him, I'll never forgive you."_

"Heya Larry!" Another girl with an especially thick New Jersey accent bellowed out from somewhere to his left. "You wanna come help me and Carla out for a sec! I think our favorite upstart boxin' champion has been completely KO'd over here."

A loud and slightly gravely scoff was made a little ways away. It was swiftly followed by what sounded like something heavy being swung around and smacking carelessly up against a plaster wall. "Yeah, yeah toots. Just hang on and let me finish packin' up my gear."

 _"Show me why even demons fail to displace you from your brother's heart."_

 _A different, more dissonant and airy voice now rasped at him from within the surrounding darkness. This one wasn't coming from the man. It was coming from…_

 _Who was it coming from?_

 _"Show me that both of you are capable of conquering even the manipulations of an ancient magic such as I."_

A sudden, hard slap struck the side of Stanley's head, rousing him from his ominous and unsettling dream. His eye's shot open instantly in surprise, and he let out an undignified yelp as he jerked himself sharply back in his desk chair. The force of quick and unplanned movement was almost enough to knock him out of his seat entirely. "Ow. Owwww. What the…. Who?"

Stanley's transition into the world of the waking had been jarring, and it took him a few seconds to familiarize himself with his surroundings. Warm yellow sunlight was streaming in through the classroom windows, giving some life to the otherwise sterile white pallor of the floor and walls. Young men and women noisily pushed and crowded around the exits in an attempt to leave as quickly and chaotically as possible. Their teacher was slouched over at the front of the classroom and dusting off the blackboard, his sloppy strokes sending puffs of white chalk up into the air as he tried to wipe away whatever mathematical equations had been written earlier.

"Oi Stanley! Rise and shine already sleepin' beauty." The young and lanky man standing above him drew back the hand that had previously been used to cut Stanley's slumber short. He shifted the weight of the knapsack slung over his shoulders a little while a playful smirk started stretching its way across his thin, freckled jaw. "Believe it or not, some of us have things we'd rather be doing right now then hanging 'round after school while yer busy countin' sheep."

Stanley gave a few more sluggish blinks, somewhat confused and still not entirely awake yet, as he finally took proper notice of the three people standing right smack dab in front of his desk.

The first was the boy in front of him named Larry, a tall and scrawny scarecrow of a human being who Stanley enjoyed boxing with on a pretty regular basis. He may not have really seemed fit for the sport at first glance, but he had a way of making his height really work to his advantage in the ring. After all, it does become a little easier to avoid getting knocked out when half of your opponents can't even swing high enough to reach your head.

The second person he noticed, the girl currently to his immediate left, was Shannon, an abrasive, sarcastic, and loudmouthed little redhead who went about her own special brand of assholery as though it was some sacred mission given to her and her alone by some higher power. But once you got passed her tendency to rub people the wrong way she was a pretty fun person to hang around. Hell, Stanley didn't think he'd ever met someone who was better at counting cards than she was, even including all of the local mobsters he had grown up around. That particular talent, along with her bright red hair, had earned her the nickname 'Bloody Lady Luck' and it was the one of the main reasons why the folks on her street didn't hold blackjack nights anymore. Well, that and because they had been shut down by the cops a little while ago for some illegal pug trafficking that had been happening on the side.

And the last person to his right, though she certainly wasn't the least in Stanley's mind, was Carla 'Hot Pants' McCorkle.

The moment Stanley's eyes met up with hers, his heart started fluttering rapidly in his chest like an agitated butterfly in a glass jar. He could feel his cheeks heating up just looking at the soft curves of her bright and deceptively gentle features, and he made a hasty attempt to wipe away the drool that had pooled on the surface of he desk while he had been dozing off.

"H-hey." He managed; voice cracking a little before he repeated the greeting in a slightly deeper and what he hoped was a smoother tone. "I mean, hey. Hey there Carla."

Carla gave him a coy, knowing smile, and in response to that an unpleasant ball of tightness started to form somewhere between Stanley's lungs and stomach. But it wasn't the kind of light and floaty constriction that often accompanies lovesick teenagers when looking at a crush. No, it was… it was…

Images began flashing across Stanley's minds eye. Ghosts from another man, haunting memories from another life, were silently crawling their way into his thoughts. The walls and floors of the classroom, the students, and the whole world around him trembled, shimmered, darkened, and transformed for a few moments into a thickly layered web of glowing red symbols. The sun above him was boiling hot, tearing into the soft flesh of his skin with the long claws of its bright rays and leaving him a half stinging, half numb mess. Even without opening his eyes he could feel the pressure of its immense weight draining the life out of him. His breath rasped weakly into the dirt, and his hand curled around whatever it was holding on to a little more tightly. The sound of crumpling plastic followed shortly afterward, echoing eerily in the otherwise perfect silence.

Stanley had no idea what was going on anymore. His head, and heart, and sense of reality were completely thrown out of balance, reeling as though they were scattered bits of debris in a whirling dust devil.

It had been years and years since Stan had seen his old high school sweetheart, in photograph or otherwise, and he wasn't quite sure what to feel around her now. After he'd been forced to drop out of school in order to complete his father's requirements to be accepted back into the family, he and Carla hadn't seen much of each other, and as consequence, had grown quite distant. In the end, there had been a pretty nasty fall out between the two of them involving transcendental music and some new-age hippie's van, and the memory of the incident even now sat so bitterly within Stanley's chest that he couldn't look at bouquets of flowers without getting a sour taste in his mouth.

But just as these mixed feelings of forlorn misery and caustic heat proceeded to swell up within his body and erase the surrounding classroom completely into the blinding glare of the sun, a dark and inky shadow began bleeding into the forefront of Stanley's mind. It reached its jet-black filaments out and coated the dissenting memories in a thick film of nothingness. After a few moments, Stanley found that he couldn't recall what it was that he had been so upset about, and the world around him came back into perfect focus.

"Hey Stanley. Stanley, you ok?" Carla's face was a bit closer now as she leaned in to give him a concerned stare. "You look like you're a little out of it."

"Fine." Stanley managed to absent-mindedly mumble. And he was fine because he was still in high school, and Carla was still his girlfriend, and they were still happy together; and here, wherever this was, all of that other stuff never had, and never would happen. Because he was Stanley Filbrick Pines, the favored son, elder Pines twin by a few minutes, and family genius.

Well, genius as far a fighting went. His grades in school certainly weren't anything to get excited about, though he didn't really care much for that kind of book learning anyways. What mattered was that he was strong, he was capable, he was confident, and he had a bright and promising future ahead of him. Everyone said so, his coach, teachers, peers, friends, parents. His brother.

Everyone knew without a shadow of a doubt that he was destined to accomplish something great one day.

Stanley brought a hand up to his temple and shook his head slightly to try and clear out the strange feeling of empty numbness that was now seemed to be saturating specially selected portions of his brain.

Another small, teasing smile trekked its way across the edges of Carla's lips. "Still not a hundred percent there yet, huh?"

"Mmm." Stan hummed in agreement.

Not even a half second later the perturbed brunette spun around to glare up at Larry's still amused and smirking expression. "You know, that really wasn't necessary Larry. I love hitting things as much as the next gal, but in case you haven't realized it yet I'll go ahead and fill you in on this little secret about the existence of _other ways_ to deal with your problems besides just smacking them around."

The gangly young man let out a small chuckle before waving his hand dismissively in Stanley's general direction. "Ah, don't blow a gasket 'Hot Pants'. You've seen as well as anyone else how good ol' Stanley over here's at takin' a punch in the ring. Fella's a brick house. I wasn't hurtin' him none."

"Yeah, yeah. Bite me twiggy. " Stanley groused in irritation as he moved the hand at his temple down to sullenly rub at the side of his still stinging ear. "You're just lucky I'm the type who prefers to settle my disputes peacefully instead'a resortin' t' violence. Otherwise…"

"Otherwise what? We'd go a bout or two and everyone'd get t'watch me kick yer butt."

Stanley let out a scoff, a smile of his own finally starting to light upon the features of his face. "Not even in your wildest dreams ya glass jaw. I bet I could take ya out in one hit."

Larry folded his long arms, and his mouth drew itself into a little bit of a pout only to be almost instantly replaced a few seconds later by a wild grin. He shook his head nonchalantly. "Oh, ya wish Pines. Ya wish. Anyways, don't cha think you should be showin' me a little appreciation or even thankin' me maybe? After all, I spared ya from havin' t'wake up all alone in the middle of an empty school, didn't I?" His eyes then moved to look at something that was to Stanley's back, and he tilted his chin up slightly to point at it. "Though I guess technically you woulden't've been completely alone, what with your mirror image over there conked out just as much as you were."

At this, Stanley raised a perplexed eyebrow and twisted himself around in his chair to peer behind him. Stanford was there; hunched over his desk with his head half pillowed in his crossed arms, and his cheek pressed into the smooth surface of the wood. His eyes were closed and his back rose and fell steadily. He hadn't been woken up yet, in spite of all the ruckus going on around him, and the lines upon his brow were still smooth and untroubled behind the slightly askew frames of his glasses.

Stanley couldn't help but find it more than a little strange that he hadn't noticed him there at all till just now, and some part of him was idly running through his memories in an effort to recall whether or not he actually had been there the whole time. But for the most part, he really didn't care all that much. An unusually soft smile for him started to stretch its way across his jaw at the sight of sleeping twin.

It didn't really matter to Stanley right now how or why his brother was here, just that he was.

"Yeash, I swear." Shannon's nasally voice yammered on to his left as she turned back to her own desk and started packing her things. "Is there anythin' under the sun that the pair of ya don't do together? You both look similar enough as it is that just seein' ya walk into class every day is enough to make me feel like I'm on one of those freaky episodes of the twilight zone." Carla giggled a little at that, and Stanley heard a light smack reverberate through the air as she gave a good-natured slap to the other girl's arm. However, he didn't turn back around to look at them. There was something else that he was busy focusing his attention on.

He hadn't noticed before, but Stanford's mouth was slightly moving in his sleep. He seemed to be whispering, muttering just under his breath. The noise of it was almost drowned out and rendered completely inaudible by the gradually decreasing background cacophony of the emptying classroom, and Stanley found that he had to lean in close to catch what it was that his brother was saying.

"No… no, no. Bill, he… he warned me about you. He told me what you… w-what you are. What you're after." Stanford's brows furrowed sharply, the earlier peacefulness of his unconscious state washed away in the rising tide of some nightmare that he was apparently struggling against.

"Hey Sixer." Stanley put a hand on his brother's shoulder and gave him a rough little shake to try and wake him up.

But instead of rousing from his sleep Stanford's eyes pinched themselves even tighter, and voice took on a sudden spike in volume. His face twisted itself into a distressed and wary grimace as the muscles in his neck and shoulders tensed harshly. "I'm not going to let you trick me. You're just… just some specter, a level seven poltergeist at best. Not going to let you… make a fool of me. S-stay away from me."

One of Stanley's eyebrows began to inch itself up his forehead at the odd dialogue streaming out from his brothers partially open mouth. "Sooo, am I gonna have to use a less gentle method of wakin' ya, or…"

Just as Stanley had reached his other hand over to give his brother a pat or two on the cheek Stanford's eyes suddenly shot wide open. "I said stay away! Sta-"

Stanford bolted backward in his chair so hard that he ended up falling out of it entirely and hitting the tiled ground with a loud smack. Stanley's face twitched in two separate directions, torn between wanting to laugh at the ridiculous tangle of limbs that his brother had managed to land in, and feeling a little concerned about whether or not he was hurt because of it. In the end, he settled for an odd mixture of both as he slipped out of his own chair to kneel down by his very bewildered and dazed twin.

"Huh. Wha-who? S-Stanley?" Stanford blinked a couple of times before slowly gazing around the room and taking in everything and everyone else. He groaned slightly and brought his fingers up under his still askew glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"Yeah it's me alright. Who else in this world could have a mug as ugly as yours." Stanley groused amiably before swinging his arms out wide in an attempt to gesture to himself. He had to bite his tongue a little as he accidentally ended up slapping his hand against the hard wooden desk in the process, but it was worth the slight pain to see the beginnings of a smile work its way onto the corners of Stanford's mouth.

He shot a sly glance in Stanley's direction as he reached up to fix his glasses. "Oh, I don't know about that. I'd say that you're at least a little bit uglier than me." His mouth twitched into a full-blown, teasing grin that wiped away his previous expression of tired puzzlement almost entirely. "I at least have the decency to wash my face every now and then."

A mischievous light sparked into Stanley's eyes as he took in his twin's comment. Before Stanford even had the time to become properly alarmed by the look his brother was giving him, Stanley had already brought his hand up to lick it and then hastily shoved his open palm across the other boy's face. Stanley could just barely see his brother's horrified and revolted expression peeking out from between the gaps in his fingers. "Whoopsie. Sorry about that Fordsey. Thought I saw a bit of dirt on your face and figured I clean it off for ya. Ya know, since personal hygiene is just soooo important to ya."

Stanford sputtered for a few moments before finally managing to overpower his brothers hold on his face and knock his hand away. He attempted to level a glare at Stanley, but it didn't exactly pack much of a punch since he wasn't quite able to completely get rid of the grin still stubbornly plastered on his mouth. "Ugh! Uggghhhh! You're so gross. Here, at least let me see your shirt for a second." He removed his glasses and stared brushing them against one of Stanley's sleeves in order to remove the streaks of spit tarnishing the otherwise clear surface.

Stanley's own expression began to shift itself back so that it was more within the realm of concern again, and he studied his brother closely, though, he wasn't quite sure what he was looking for. "So… what was up with that, huh? Bad dream or something?"

Stanford hummed distractedly while his fingers worked themselves into the fabric of his brother's shirt to more effectively clear off the smudging, before fully registering his question and turning his eyes back up to answer him a little hesitantly. "Oh I… Yeah. Yeah, just a… or something I guess."

"Heh, you're not the only one. I was having a pretty wacked out dream myself."

The look of concentration on Stanford's face as he finished clearing his glasses off started ironing itself out into an appraising smile. He raised an eyebrow at his twin's statement before a slight, half awkward, half amused chuckle eased itself out from his chest. "Don't tell me our twin telepathy was acting up again."

"Might've been." Stanley noncommittally shrugged as he helped his brother to pick himself up from off the ground and launched into his next question. "So who's Bill anyways?"

"Who's… Bill?" At the mention of the name Stanford's brightly shining eyes seemed to dull suddenly and loose their focus. His expression incrementally morphed into the sort of puzzled, frustrated, blankness that accompanies someone who knows that they've forgotten something, but isn't quite capable of recalling whatever it is that they've forgotten. "I'm not…" He shook his head as though trying to clear something away. "What are you talking about?"

The two of them were distracted for a moment by the series of snickers and muffled bangs as their teacher accidentally knocked a stack of books and papers over in his efforts to collect them all up. Stanley watched on in amusement as Carla rushed over to help the old fogey out before turning back to his brother and giving an offhanded grunt. "Meh, how should I know? You were the one who was just mutterin' stuff in yer sleep about him. I was just wondering if he was a friend of yours that I don't know about. Or, if he's an enemy…"A threating smirk flickered at the corners of his mouth as he pulled up his sleeve and gave his arm a couple of appreciative flexes. "Just say the word and I'll show him what happens when ya try t'mess with a member of the Pines family."

But Stanford didn't look very reassured. If anything he seemed to pull back even deeper within himself, his eyes flitting back and forth as though he were thoroughly sifting through the contents of his own memories. "I… I don't actually remember what I was… dreaming about. Do you?"

Stanley gave his arm another flex just for good measure; a little surprised himself at the definition of the muscle there (Had they always been like that?), before casually answering. "Nah, not really. But I don't really think tha-"

"Ay Stanley, Stanford. You two slugs wanna hurry it up already." Larry obnoxiously griped from where he was leaning up against the doorframe of the classroom along with Shannon and Carla. "Some of us actually got places we need to be getting to right 'bout now."

Stanley rolled his eyes, making absolutely no effort to hide his irritation, before reaching down to where his and Stanford's backpacks were laying on the ground and lifting them both up in a single effortless swoop. "Yeah, we're coming, we're coming. Yeesh. Can't even have a decent conversation without you guys getting all uppity."

Stanford gingerly took the backpack that his brother was offering to him, and his eyes abruptly widened as he seemed to finally realize something. "Wait, are we… did we… Oh no." He slapped a hand up to his face before slowly dragging it down and stretching out his features in a moaning self-reproach. "Don't tell me we slept through our statistics class again."

Stanley shrugged as he and his brother started making their way out into the hallway to join the other three. "Heh, looks like it."

The brows on Stanford's forehead sunk down sharply over his eyes and his shoulders tensed up in frustrated agitation. He released a harsh and pointed exhale in his brother's general direction as his voice rose a couple of octaves. "Stanley, don't give me that aloof attitude! At the rate I'm going at right now I'm only barely going to make it out of high school with passable grades. You probably won't even manage that!"

"Ah, come on Ford. It's not tha-" Stanley's attempt to provide reassurance was promptly cut off by a pair of long and boney arms slinging themselves over each of the brother's shoulders and then pulling them in haphazardly enough that they almost ended up knocking their heads together. Larry's somewhat familiar twang butted itself into the conversation uninvited.

"Yeah maybe, but do ya really think Stanley even needs to finish high school at this point?" Larry gave a large and noncommittal shrug that flexed his arms inwards, and this time he actually did end up bumping the twin's heads slightly against each other. He returned the annoyed, side eyed-glare that Stanford sent in his direction with a wide and cocky smirk. "I mean, as his brother you've seen better than anyone how well he handles himself in the ring. Just last week our boy Stanley here took down Bradley Finnegan, someone who's not only a seasoned veteran but who also outweighed your brother by about two-hundred pounds!"

"I think that's more than a bit of an exaggeration. It was probably more like seve-" Stanford managed to mumble before the conversation was interrupted again by Shannon loudly and unexpectedly slamming her fist against her open palm.

"JUST BLAMO!" She shouted, turning around to grin wildly at the trio of boys so quickly that her frizzy red hair seemed to get whiplash and bobbed around as though it were jello in a bounce house. "One little taste of the fabled Stanley Pines left hook and he went down harder than a solid chunk lead in the ocean! It was like watching someone reenact David and Goliath straight from the good book, wasn't it? Boy, was that a match for the ages!" She shook her head in wonder and then absently mindedly bunted her rear end against the rapidly approaching doors in order to avoid having to face forward to open them and breaking the momentum of her exposition. "I'm tellin' ya Fordsey, your brother's a school hero, practically Hercules. If he decides to take on a professional boxing career, I really can't see him not becomin' world famous."

The group of five exited the school building and began to make their way down the stone steps and out into the clamor of honking horns and shouted profanities that made up the regular background noise of New Jersey street life. Larry was grudgingly forced to give up the comfortable slouching position he had taken between the twins or else risk the three of them tripping over each other and traversing the stairs via the express route. A cool, wet, and brackish sea breeze swept playfully between the teens, tugging at their hair and ruffling their clothing, and as it passed over Stanley, he found himself almost unconsciously ground to a complete halt.

All of the sights, and smells, and sounds going on around him should have been typical and unextraordinary, and he knew it. This was everyday life coming at him again, just as it had always been. He and Stanford had been stuck in their hometown for practically forever, not even getting the chance to leave it for vacations as their father had always seen such trips as a frivolous waste that couldn't be afforded on the family's low budget. His eyes shouldn't have started pricking uncomfortably and moistening as he took in the unremarkable street before him. His heart shouldn't have sped up, and his chest shouldn't have started aching. A feeling of melancholy nostalgia shouldn't have crept its way into his limbs and drained the energy from them.

But it did.

He managed to get his legs to start working again, allowing him to catch back up with the other four who had thankfully walked on without noticing his slight pause, but couldn't help but get the impression that he was strange and out of place as his feet finally touched down onto the sidewalk. It was as though he was a washed out object oddly inserted into a bright and colorful background that he didn't quite belong to. It was an absolutely ridiculous thing to feel, but despite his best efforts to shake it off, the odd pressure of the homesickness swirling behind his sternum persisted. He turned to look at Stanford and, to his slight surprise, found his own wistful and dreary expression mirrored in his brother's introspective, downward gaze.

Carla, being as ever observant as she was, seemed to take notice of both of their unusually pensive and distant moods, and raised a wondering eyebrow before questioning them about it. "Wow. The two of you got real quiet all of a sudden. Something botherin' ya?"

"Huh? Oh, it's…" Stanley's brain floundered around as he scrambled to remember whatever topic they had all been discussing last before they had left the school. After a few seconds of awkward silence, he was finally able to offer up a hasty answer back. "Eh, I guess it's just that I never really thought about making a career out of boxing before. I mean sure, I love doin' it, and I've got no problem ruling the ring 'round our side of the river here. But that doesn't necessarily mean that I'm cut out for the big leagues, ya know." Stanley rubbed the back of his neck a little in an oddly open display of doubt for him, before offering up a shrug and looking back into the faces of the group of friends surrounding him. "Do… do you guys really think I could make it in that world?"

Larry let out a roar of laughter before giving Stanley a huge slap across the back that probably had enough force behind it to knock over small children and the elderly effortlessly. "Are you kiddin' me Stanley!? Don't pretend ya didn't see the figures you raked in from people bettin' on your last match. And just like you said, you haven't even hit the big leagues yet! Nuts to school and all that junk. Yer obviously made for somethin' better than that, for something great! Ya got a real gift from Mother Nature here, a real talent when it comes to what goes down in the boxin' ring." Larry put a scrawny hand on Stanley's shoulder and waved his arm out in front of them as though he was drawing back a curtain. "Trust me on this one meathead, if ya keep up with the direction you're going right now, then I think it's safe to guarantee that you're gonna have a pretty heavy and ace-tastic career ahead 'f ya."

Stanford gave a little huff beside them and testily rolled his shoulders to readjust the straps of his backpack before murmuring something under his breath. "Hmph. I guess that just shows how much you guys understand about our plans for the future."

"Sorry, what was that Fordsey?" Shannon's grating and nasally voice chirped out as she reached over and unsuccessfully tired to muss Stanford's hair before he managed to dodge her. She raised her eyebrows at this and gave him the sly look that someone would likely give to a misbehaving child. "Why don't cha try speakin' up a little so someone besides you brother can hear ya for once, huh."

Stanford shot the slightly taller girl an annoyed glare and rolled his eyes in obvious exasperation with her antics, but he did raise his voice a little to address her. "I said, I'd appreciate it if you'd respect my personal space, please. And since you've apparently missed the memo despite the numerous times I've reiterated it, for your sake I'll say it again. Don't. Call. Me. Fordsey.'"

"Oh, a little sensitive aren't cha." Shannon giggled and made another halfhearted attempt to fuss with Stanford's hair, which he again dogged like a reclusive cat expertly avoiding the sticky hands of a young child. "Awww. S'matter Fordsey? I don't get it. You don't seem to have a problem whenever Stanley calls ya that. Actually you don't seem to be bothered by any of his nicknames for ya, even that 'Sixer' one which I thought for sure would get'cha all upset and zappy cause… " She made a vague gesture to the sky to draw attention to her wiggling fingers as an unapologetic smirk stretched its way across her face. "Well, you know."

Stanford's gaze became hard at the jab, and he drew himself up a little while his jaw set itself uncomfortably tight enough to cause the muscles to twitch. He tried to force his face to remain blank in order to close himself off completely from her mean-spirited teasing, and he responded in a cool and controlled tone. "Yes, well it may have escaped your notice, but you aren't my brother."

"Goodnessssss!" Shannon moaned loudly, rolling her neck and throwing out her arms as obnoxiously as she was probably capable of. "Why d'ya have to be such an antisocial killjoy all the time, eh? Don't tell me that freaky extra finger of yours is just there to suck all the fun right out of ya."

Something dark and distressed passed over Stanford's face at this, and his eyes shot sharply downward to stare at the ground. He stiffly jerked his shoulders back and then shoved his hands deeply into his jean pockets. Stanley felt his own cheeks heating up out of secondhand embarrassment, and he sent a fiery scowl in the redhead's direction as he started to lose hold of his own temper.

"Ay Shannon, why don't ya cut it out, huh!" Stanley groused, loud enough that his voice was easily able to cut through even the regular noise of the street; so much so that it practically bounced off from the rows of buildings to either side of them before he lowered it again to chastise her more directly. "If my brother wants you to stop callin' him Fordsey, then you're gonna stop calling him that right now. Got it." He let out a little scoff before allowing himself a sour smile and pointing a finger at her face to give her a little taste of her own medicine. "And besides, if anything's sucking the fun away right now, I'd be that gigantic zit sticking out from your nose. Seriously, I feel like there's someone hiding on one of these rooftops and aiming a laser pointer right down at ya. Talk about distractin'."

Shannon eyes crossed a little as she focused in on the offending red bump, and her lips swung out boldly to the side of her jaw as her freckled features set themselves into a firm pout. She then raised a finger of her own to point in Stanley's direction while simultaneously knocking his off to the side. "Yeah, yeah. That's real rich comin' from you, braille face. Your heads such a grease ball it looks like it hasn't even been washed in at least a few months."

Stanley felt one of his eye brows start to twitch as Larry snickered from up above him, and out of the corner of his vision he caught sight of Stanford moving a hand out of his pocket and up over his mouth in a poor attempt to cover his own laughter. He gave his brother a withering glance, but Stanford only lowered his hand a little so Stanley could see his struggling grin, and then shrugged his shoulders in a semi insincere apology.

"Well." He muttered after he had managed to rein back his smile to a more reasonable level of snide enjoyment. "That is pretty much what I was telling you earlier, right?"

"Traitor." Stanly grumbled before turning to face Carla who had put a hand on his shoulder in order to gain his attention.

"Actually, they both kind of have a point there Stanley. Ya do smell pretty ripe up close. Did ya even bother with deodorant today?"

Stanley's cheeks couldn't help but flush a little at _her_ teasing. He gave a small laugh in order to cover up his embarrassment and then put on a confident smirk with the intention of playing the whole thing off as aloofly as possible. "Ah well, what can I say. When you're workin', _ugh_ , hard on gun's like these-" He whipped out his arms and flexed them appreciatively. "-you tend to forget about trivial little things like personal hygiene."

Carla gave a coy smile and started poking, prodding, and running her fingers along the muscles in his arms as though she was inspecting fruit at the supermarket. "Hmm. Well, these are pretty nice. I suppoooose… I might be able to find it in my heart to forgive you, just so long as you wouldn't mind using these guns of yours to help me out with somethin' a little later this evening."

Stanley lowered his arms and then tilted his head back to let out a long and exasperated groan. He should have figured that Carla wouldn't let him get away with skipping his morning shower that easily. "Ah, what is it this time? Don't tell me your car's got a flat tire again."

The brunette raised an eyebrow at this and did her best to project an innocent look upon her face, but Stanley knew her too well to fooled by it for even a moment. "Hm. That was a quick guess. Have ya been takin' phone psychic lessons from your mom or something?"

"No, but if you keep on repeatin' the same shtick over and over again even a knucklehead like me will start t'catch on eventually." Stanley scoffed a little and shook his head in a weary acceptance of the hard manual labor he was now destined to partake in come a few hours time. "So, are you gonna at least tell me which poor sap you ended up running over this time?"

"What!" Carla brown eyes widened, and she squeaked indignantly as she dug her fingernails into his bicep. "No one! I didn- Look, that was a one-time thing ok. And besides, I wouldn't've even come close to scraping that hippie if he hadn't suddenly jumped out in front of me like that. It's not like I've made a habit out of hitting people with my car."

"Oh really?" Larry piped up from behind. "And what about that greaser you barreled over back in May?"

"Well… Ok, ok. There's that one too, but I was doing it on purpose that time so it doesn't really count. I mean, that creep was trying to set fire to Mrs. Peterson's little grocery store on the corner, and right after that poor old woman had lost her husband too. Don't tell me you wouldn't've done the same thing if you'd been in my situation." She leveled the whole group with a sharp and acidic glare as if daring any of them to disagree. Thankfully everyone had the good sense not to, so she turned herself forwards again and continued on. "Besides, I only broke his legs. He was fine. Mostly."

"Meh, if that's how you wanna try and justify the pretty obvious case'a road rage ya got goin' on here 'Hot Pants', then who am I to judge." Larry acquiesced, a teasing tone brightly threading its way through his voice while he shook his head dismissively. "As far as I'm concerned, both you and my pops are just livin' in straight up denial land."

"Pfft. Maybe I'll run you over next, huh?" Carla gave Larry a side-glance and then stuck her tongue out childishly in his direction. Stanley's arm was lightly shaken as she smiled up at him and refocused his attention on her pervious request. "Well anyways Stanley, ya think you might be able to make it over to my place sometime tonight? The two of us can go dancin' at the Juke Joint together once we've finished up."

At the mention of some proper motivation, Stanley whole posture perked up and a wild grin started spreading itself across his wide jawline. Dancing with his favorite gal in the whole world, now that was something he could really get behind. He did his best to bite back the smile lighting up his face and curbed his enthusiasm a little in order to address Carla as smoothly and charmingly as possibly could. "Heh, you know I'm easy babe. I'd love t-"

Stanley abruptly cut himself off as some previously forgotten detail suddenly occurred to him, and as he glanced back at Stanford the two of them shared a meaningful look. That's right, it was Tuesday, which meant...

He took a moment to recollect his thoughts before his eyes nervously darted away from Carla, and he backpedaled hard out of his preceding affirmation.

"Actually…" He made a slight pause again as he debated something in his mind, and then finally settled on a compromise. "All right, so I'll probably have enough time to do the car tonight, but I'm afraid I'm gonna have t'take a rain check on the dancing part." He winced a little at this hoping that she wouldn't be too upset, and decided to throw in an easy laugh just for good measure. "Heh. You know the deal when it comes to Tuesday and Sunday nights. Me and Ford already have plans."

"Oh, riiiiight." Shannon rolled her eyes patronizingly as she chimed in. "I nearly forgot about that silly pet project you and your brother have been working on. What d'ya guys even plan on doin' with that gloried pile of beach junk anyways. I mean, even if ya do manage to get that thing seaworthy I don't really see what it's really gonna be good for. It looks like it'd just barely fit the two 'f ya as it is."

Stanford bristled at that, and the grip that he had on the shoulder straps of his bag tightened severely till it turned his knuckles white. He swiftly twisted himself to face the redhead straight on, nearly falling outright as he stumbled over the curb that he was ignoring in his righteous indignation, and he leveled her with a steely glare. "I'll have you know that what the Stan O'War may lack in size, it more than makes up for in durability. And as for what we're going to use it for..." He scowled darkly before looking away from her dismissively. " Well that really isn't any of your business, now is it."

Larry folded his hands behind his head in a sort of nonchalant thoughtfulness and added in his own offhand input to try and ease the tension of the conversation slightly. "From what Stanley told me it sounds like the two 'f ya plan on using that thing t'sail around the world and hunt for monsters, and treasure, and other junk like that. Like the pair 'f ya were famous adventurers or somethin'." He smiled and looked up into the sky at that, as though he were remembering something warm and nostalgic before shaking his head a little and letting his hands fall back down again. "Heh. It was a cute dream while the two of ya were kids, but ya can't seriously still be hanging onto it even now. I mean, even you have to realize how completely unrealistic that is."

Stanford's cheeks started growing bright red in stark contrast to his absolutely tight lipped and frigid expression. "It is not! Stanley and I have been planning this out for years. It's plenty feasible if we work at it together."

"Don't bother arguing with him Larry." Shannon snorted as she jabbed a thumb in Stanford's direction. "Remember this is the kid who tried t'convince us that he and Stanley saw a mermaid out by the docks a few summers back. Obviously he doesn't have the best grip on reality."

Stanley couldn't help but wince a little as he watched his brother's eyes grow bright with anger at the girl's condescending skepticism, and he seemed to lose whatever tenuous hold he'd managed to keep thus far on his composed restraint. He couldn't say that he was too surprised at that, though. He knew exactly what direction this conversation was going to head in now. Ever since they were young kids Stanford had always possessed an intense passion for the supernatural and the strange, the undiscovered; and as such the quickest and easiest was to get a rise out of him was usually through doubting or making fun of his findings.

Maybe… maybe if Stanford had been born with the brains to be able to back up such wild and fantastic assertions this wouldn't have ever been a problem. Maybe if he had been able to provide sufficient proof and confidence for himself, he wouldn't have been so upset when he was denied the validation of their peers. Maybe if somewhere down the line he'd acquired the sheer genius necessary to fully immerse himself within the strange world that so enthralled him, he wouldn't have had such a difficult time getting along with others and wouldn't have clashed with the people who disagreed with him quite so vehemently.

Yes, maybe. But as things were here and now Stanford tended to come off…

Well, Stanley thought to himself, there really wasn't a nice way of putting it, was there.

Stanford tended to come off as a bit of a loon.

Stanford's fists were curled up so tight and severely that they faintly trembled, and his voice had raised itself to the point where he was nearly shouting at the redhead. "There was a mermaid there! Just because you don't see anomalies every day doesn't mean that they don't exist. That's. The reason. Why. They're called. Anomalies!"

"Uh huh." Shannon shot back cruelly. "Well being an anomaly yourself, I suppose you'd probably recognize them better than anyone else when ya see'em, eh."

Stanford's eyes flashed so bright and furiously behind the lenses of his glasses that the sheer anger of his gaze almost completely covered up the open hurt that passed though his face as well. Almost. He grasped at his backpack more securely so it wouldn't flop around, and then lowered his head before taking off running down the sidewalk.

"Ford, Ford!" Stanley tried calling out after his brother to get him to stop, but Stanford just ignored him and ducked around the street corner. He slapped a hand across his own face, cursing himself inwardly for not intervening sooner, and then decided to go ahead and release a string of muttered profanities outwardly too just for good measure.

An awkward silence persisted for a moment only to be broken by Shannon's shrill laughter and the sound of Carla slapping the other girl across the arm while scolding her. "Oh for goodness sake Shannon, will you knock it off already! You're not bein' funny; you're bein' a huge jerk. Now go apologize to Stanford for that right this instant."

"What!" She shoved Carla away a little roughly, grin still plastered onto her face. "I'm not gonna apologize for nothin'. It's not my fault that Stanley's baby bro is so sensitive that he can't take a little joke every here and there."

"Are you kidding me! Are you seriously going to-"

"It's fine Carla." Stanley ground out lowly. His face had twisted into a heated scowl and his eyes were as sharp as razor blades. His hands tightened on the straps of his backpack as he prepared himself to chase after his brother. "This is where we split from you guys anyways. Catcha later."

And with that, Stanley raced around the corner too.

He didn't look back or wait for any of them to return his goodbye.

Thankfully Stanford hadn't run very far once he'd passed out of sight behind the corner, so it didn't take too long for his brother to catch up with his now straggling gait. Stanley slowed his approach once he started getting closer to his twin, and then hesitated for a few seconds before deciding to test his luck and placing a reassuring hand on one of his brother's shoulders. Stanford jolted a little in surprise; as though he had been so lost in his own thoughts and hadn't noticed Stanley coming up behind him at all till just then, but otherwise he gave no other response save to continue looking at his feet.

"Hey Ford, you alright?" Stanley attempted an easy grin, but he wasn't able to keep it for long before the corners of his mouth melted downwards into a softer look of concern.

Stanford said nothing at that. He gazed into nothing, pensively examining some thought or emotion that Stanley couldn't quite make out on his carefully controlled and blank expression. But in the end, even his best efforts to close himself off to his twin weren't really all that effective. The small movement he made to hide his hands under his tightly crossed arms gave him away pretty easily.

Stanley opted to throw caution to the wind and tossed one of his own arms recklessly over his brother's stiff shoulders, jostling the pair of them and nearly sending both careening down to the sidewalk below. His gambit worked, and Stanford choked back a muffled cry of surprise as his previously rigid posture was forced to loosen in order to avoid toppling over. A satisfied smile wormed its was onto Stanley's face at his small victory, and though his brother shot him an annoyed glare and attempted to shrug him off almost immediately afterward, Stanley just made sure to hold on even tighter.

"Ah, come oooon Ford." He groaned playfully, giving his brother another good shake to help open him up a little more. "You know better than to take Shannon too seriously. That gal just doesn't have much in the way of an internal filter." Stanley put his hand up to his chin in a mock thoughtful gesture. "Heh. Kinda like me I suppose."

"Hmm. You can be pretty obnoxious sometimes." Stanford agreed testily. His annoyed frown was still firmly in place, but it at least wasn't as deeply set as it had been before. Like the waves of the ocean washing away deep footprints in the sand, bit-by-bit Stanley's good spirits were starting to cause his brother's previous moodiness to fade completely.

"Yup, but I'm your brother so you're just gonna have to deal with that." Stanley's voice was extra boisterous in his cheer, and his grip around his brother drew even tighter as grinned at him roguishly. "You're stuck with me, whether ya like it or not."

A small smile finally managed to thaw its way over Stanford's slightly cool expression as he spared a sideways glance back at his twin, but it didn't get the chance to persist for long. Something else, some dark doubt or remorseful dejection, crept along the edges of his features at Stanley's comment, and he slowly turned his head away in order to try and hide whatever was thinking from his brother.

"… Stanford?" Stanley asked softly, though he made sure that his voice was still firm enough to let his brother know that he wouldn't be taking silence as an acceptable answer.

His twin continued to stubbornly hold his tongue for a few more moments, and Stanley patiently waited for him while he watched the rows of buildings pass them by and listened to a couple of old men arguing about the rising price of newspapers on the side of the street opposite theirs. Finally, Stanford let out a long sigh and relented, his arms uncrossing as he peered at his brother a little hesitantly. "I just… I don't understand why you like hanging out with those guys."

"Ah come on Ford, don't be like that. They're your friends too, aren't they?"

Stanford's eyes darted away again, and he readjusted his backpack a little under Stanley's still outstretched arm before easing his hands into the pockets of his jeans. A dreary look passed over him, one that seemed to completely drain the color from his features in spite of the warm golden glow of the afternoon sun washing over him. He looked tired suddenly, utterly exhausted by the heavy weight of his own somber musings, and very, very alone.

"If you…" Stanford's voice was so softly murmured that his brother almost didn't hear him speaking at all, and had to lean a little inwards in order to avoid missing it. "If you want to go dancing with Carla tonight, you can go ahead and do that. You don't _have_ to stay behind just for my sake. You don't _have_ to be stuck with the naïve dreamer or t-the…" A dark wash of introspective, almost self-hating, cold anger leaked into the centers of his eyes as he paused for a second.

It was a look that Stanley always hated seeing on his brother's face because it reminded him too much of himself. Both of them had a tendency to be fairly ill-tempered when it came right down to it, and each could easily be driven to their own versions of intense bouts of fury and bleak, desolate musings if left in a bad mood for too long. The only difference between them, in that respect at least, was the way they each went about handling their particular energies.

Stanley burned hot, he always had and always would. For him, anger was synonymous with fire, brightly blazing inferno's that sparked up at his center and heated his blood to a raging, torrid boil. It brought about a thoughtless, feverish, lightheadedness that was well suited when quick, dangerous, or unrelentingly persistent action needed to be taken. But it also more often than not ended up getting him into a lot of trouble as he didn't really think things through before diving headfirst into any given situation.

Stanford, on the other hand, ran his own inner workings quite coldly. Anger didn't often translate to immediate action in him so much as careful, introspective brooding and calculated planning. The more upset he got, the more he tended to draw inwards and bite frigidly at anyone who would dare to intrude upon his personal space. When things got really bad he would sometimes withdraw entirely, and when someone would look into his eyes all they would see of him would be a frozen, blank, and emotionlessness black pits.

That was the kind of expression that was trying to freeze itself into his brother gaze now, a painfully accepting and oddly detached grimace.

"The freak." He finished quietly. "You don't have to be stuck with the freak if you don't want to be. I…I don't need your pity."

"Pity!?" A bit of a scowl began to form on Stanley's own face at this, and he leveled a hard and serious glare back at his brother. "Stanford quit being ridiculous. And cut out that talk about being a freak too, it's stupid and ya know it."

But though the fierce and unyielding heat of his brother's words caused Stanford's features to melt and become a little softer, he still looked largely unconvinced. The thaw revealed something else that was hiding in his face, something that seemed vulnerable, unsure, and maybe even…

Afraid.

"Stanford, listen to me." Stanley drew both of them to a halt and placed his hands firmly on both of his twin's shoulders, preventing him from turning away again so that Stanley could be sure that the truth of his words struck his brother head-on and made it through the thick wall of dark doubt in his eyes. "Wherever we go, we go together, remember? Just because I make friends with other people doesn't mean I'm abandoning you. Back when we were kids and everyone would look down and pick on us, we promised that we would always have the other's back, and that isn't changin' anytime soon." The sternness of his gaze restrained itself slightly and morphed into something warm and inviting. Hot and determined. "No matter what happens the two of us are always gonna come first for each other, all right."

"You…" The slope of Stanford's brows eased and smoothed out as he regarded his brother with a hesitant hope and affection. "You really don't think I'm a burden holding you back? Or that I'm suffocating you?"

A wide smirk stretched across Stanley's jaw as he quickly shifted one of his arms all the way around his brother's shoulders and pulled him into a sturdy headlock. "Who's bein' suffocating?" He teased loudly enough that he was able to drown out the volume of his twin's squirming and surprised protests.

He let out a gravely laugh as he finally let Stanford push him off after a few seconds before leveling him with a slightly more sincere and deliberate look. "Seriously, if you _ever_ hear someone talking like that, be sure to point me in their direction so I can go and give them a black eye." A booming smack resounded through the humid and smoggy air as Stanley punched at his open palm for added emphasis.

"Heh." Stanford readjusted his glasses, as they had been slightly skewed off from his face in his efforts to get out of the headlock, and then offered back his twin a warm and rueful smile of his own. "Thanks. I guess a was being pretty silly there, wasn't I. Thanks for that."

"Not a problem Fordsey. High six?"

Stanford stared at the offered hand for only half a second before his face completely lit up like the first rays of shining yellow sunlight on a cool summer morning, and he brought his own six fingered hand up to return the gesture. "High six."

The two started walking home once again, this time at a slightly more easy pace as Stanford whipped out a red covered notebook from his backpack and proceeded to explain to his brother in enthusiastic detail all the new adjustments he planned on having them make for the Stan O'War. Stanley wasn't quite sure what the weird feeling of soft pressure pressing up against his chest might be as he watched his brother's pencil tap absentmindedly at the intricate and detailed drawing of their ship, but if he had been forced to make a guess he might have thought that it was some kind of equivalent to...

Well, it wasn't really happiness, or joy, or any other temporary or fleeting form of that emotion. It was something that was more solid than bliss but ran deeper than simple contentment. He felt... at home. He couldn't think of any better way to describe it than that.

Being around Stanford felt like being at home, more than anywhere else in the world possibly could.

With that kind of warm, and thick, and practically glowing cheerfulness racing its way through his veins, all of the unsettling disquiet brought upon by the strange dream he'd been having earlier, as well as the permeating feelings of homesickness and displacement, had completely lost their roots in his mind and were blown away high into the dark blue October sky along with the fiery hurricane of bright orange leaves already swirling there. An indomitable smile burst out from the center of his chest and perched itself lightly upon his face. He was completely at ease and carefree, and as such, neither he nor Stanford noticed a deep, lightless, dark, and vaguely human-shaped shadow trailing watchfully after them a fair distance away.


	14. Chapter 14

Author's note: Just wanted to say that there's a fun little reference I make in this chapter when a certain character is walking up a stairwell, specifically the eighth and ninth step. For those who aren't familiar with Dante's Inferno, the eighth circle of hell is fraud and the ninth is treachery. Just a fun little fact ;)

* * *

Chapter 14

Adhere to your purpose and you will soon feel as well as you ever did.

On the contrary, if you falter, and give up, you will lose the power of keeping any resolution, and will regret it all your life. - Abraham Lincoln

* * *

The sound of low and gruff muttering died out as the small brass bell on the front door of the Pines family Pawnshop gave a light jingle, and the heads of the three occupants sitting in the store's main showroom almost simultaneously turned towards the noise as Stanley and Stanford filed into the cramped and cluttered entryway. A clammy autumn breeze burst in on the pair's heels causing the cheap jewelry and key chains hung up on the racks by the door to shudder slightly at the sudden forceful influx of cool air, and a few documents that had previously been lying on the counter fluttered and scattered onto the smooth wooden floor. The boys' mother made a barely audible grumble about "Lettin' in a draft." and "Makin' a mess." from her place alongside to the other two men, but both of the twins were so focused on animatedly discussing their plans for refitting some of the more worn out parts of the Stan O' War that at first they barely took any notice of the conversation they had just interrupted.

"So, obviously we're going to have to sand and smooth out the planks around the mast before we can add another coat of varnish, but once we manage to scrape away all the rotted sections of the wood I don't think it will take too…" Stanford's voice trailed off and his pencil halted in the path that it had previously been tracing up the side of the drawing as he finally caught sight of both their parents and their boxing coach lounging around near the center of the room. His eyebrow's shot up as he spared a glance at his brother, but all that Stanley could offer in return was an equally perplexed shrug of his shoulders.

"Ah, and here's the man of the hour himself." Coach Hansen pushed his slightly wide and stocky body off from the glass display case that he had been leaning on to sweep out his arm and gesture at the two boys. A large and excited grin settled itself across his stubble-ridden jaw. "We've been waiting for you to get back."

"You're late." Their father irritably barked from his own seat on one of the dusty antique couches that had been lying around unsold in the shop for so long that it had become it's own little display table of sorts. Their mother, who was perched next to her husband on the item strewn sofa with her own arm comfortably wormed through and looped around his stiffly crossed ones, also gave the boys a questioning look.

"Ah, s-sorry about that." Stanford flushed slightly in murmured embarrassment. He quickly snapped his red notebook shut and swung his backpack around to the front in order to shove the sketches in between a couple of school books before their father could spot them. Stanley shifted a little in front of his brother to help cover his efforts.

"Yeah, we just got held up after class a little." He affirmed in a tone that was a lot less apologetic than his brother's had been. He rubbed at the back of his neck nonchalantly as his face set itself into an annoyed and almost uninterested frown, and he rocked back and forth slightly on his heels before grousing out his own inquiry. "Sooo, what exactly's goin' on here anyways?"

Coach Hansen's smile stretched out even wider under his salt and pepper mustache making the long wrinkles on his old face especially pronounced. He jerked his chin to motion for the two boys to come closer and then gave a knowing look to both of their parents. "Well, that's actually what I've been waiting here to discuss with you. I'd invite you to take a seat, but this isn't exactly my home."

Stanford finished stowing his notebook away and readjusting his backpack on his shoulders, and the pair shuffled their way through the tightly packed maze of polished antiques and knickknacks to the ugly green couch that their parents were currently occupying. Stanley settled himself onto the arm of the old furniture, a small smirk plastering on his face as he obnoxiously stretched his legs out in front of him. His brother rolled his eyes a little before stepping over his feet and beginning to take a seat on the cushion next to him, but he didn't get the chance to even bend halfway down before Coach Hansen made a brief coughing noise to get their attention.

"Ah, just Stanley please."

The two twins shared surprised and calculating looks with each other for a few moments. The muscles in Stanley's jaws started tightening themselves stubbornly in preparation to argue with the request, but Stanford just eased himself back up and gave a small and hesitant smile before shaking his head dismissively. "It's fine. I'll just be… up in our room trying to catch up on the statistics lesson we slept through. I'll meet you up there when you're done."

At this, the younger twin turned and slipped agilely through of the rest of the pawnshop's obstacle course towards the stairwell leading up to the second floor. The group of now four waited in an uncomfortable silence for a couple of seconds while they listened to the teen's footfalls lightly thudding up the steps, before Stanley decided that his patience was wearing pretty thin and he wanted to figure out what was going on already.

"Am I in trouble or somethin'?" He crossed his arms sharply and gruffly hazarded a guess.

Mr. Hansen let out a small chuckle as he took in Stanley's impatient frown and guarded posture, and he shook his head before fixing the young man with a warm and amused expression. "I'm guessing that's why adults usually come over to your house and start asking for you, huh you little trouble maker? Well it looks like you're in for a bit of luck today because I'm here for just the opposite reason actually."

"What'd ya mean by opposite?" Stanley's mother's asked, her rough voice a bit barbed as she regarded Mr. Hansen skeptically.

The heavyset boxing instructor gazed proudly at Stanley for another moment or two as though he was looking upon a winning hand of cards in a high stakes poker game, before tapping thoughtfully at the side of his jaw and providing the explanation that the three members of the Pines family in front of him were waiting to hear. "Stanley, I may be going blind in my left eye, but even I can recognize raw talent like yours when it walks through my gym's doors. From the day your father first brought you in I knew you that you were something special, that you had what it took to make it all the way into the big leagues. And now, now you're gonna get a chance to prove just that."

"What d'ya mean by that?" The hard edges of Stanley's scowl were gradually melting as the same infectious excitement that was lighting up his coach's eyes started seeping its way into his own blood. His earlier caution was all but completely fading away as his mind started running through the possible meanings of Mr. Hansen's statement.

If the twin's coach had been beaming any harder he might have risked the expression setting into the lines of his face forever, and permanently ruining his reputation as a no-nonsense, hot-blooded hard-ass. His eyes blazed brightly and his voice suddenly grew so loud and boisterous that it started ricocheting off from the walls and ceiling like a well-made bouncy ball as he made his big announcement. "Heh. What I mean is that for this Saturday's match I've invited some of the boys from the United States Boxing Federation to come and watch you take on Sergey Brook! How d'ya like them apples kiddo?"

There was a small moment of anticipation saturated silence before Stanley tilted his head and asked dumbly. "Oh. Is that a big deal or somethin'?"

Coach Hansen's brows shot up into his hairline and a muffled smack resounded through the air as he brought his hand up over his face in a disbelieving exasperation. "Oy vey. 'Is that a big deal?', he asks me. Kid, do you have any idea how many strings I had to pull and favors I had to call in just to get this group of people to come down here?" He threw his hands out wildly now and pushed himself into a standing position before pacing around energetically in the small space provided between a dusty old wardrobe and a mint condition collection of boxed Elvis Presley records. "Of course they're a big deal! These are the guys are the gatekeepers, the top dogs who can make or break your career as a professional in this sport, and they're looking for young upstarts like you to mold into champions. You're playing with the small fish right now, and blasting right through them like they're tissue paper I might add, but if you can manage to win the local title on Saturday and impress these fellas, then I can guarantee you that you'll be ranked up to the national levels by the end of the winter."

That bit of information brought Stanley's train of thought to a screeching halt. His eyes widened in a thrill of barely contained enthusiasm, and it was all that he could do not to jump up from his own seat and join his coach pacing around on the floor. As it was, he settled instead on just sitting up ramrod straight and uncrossing his arms so he could move his hands to grip tightly onto the denim covering his knees. "W-what! I-I mean… What?! You're saying that I'll be able to… I'll get to go professional? I'll be in the big leagues already? But I… that's… Holy cow!"

Even the ever impossible to please head of the Pines household perked up a little upon hearing this news. His eyebrows gradually worked their way up his forehead while the thin and stern set of his mouth loosened into something that almost resembled a very unpracticed smile. "For someone his age, that's… impressive."

Though it may have only been a minor complement, the fact that it was paid by his usually stone-faced and aloof father caused Stanley's cheeks to tint slightly red. His eyes quickly darted away from the older man's appreciative side-glance behind the pair dark glasses that he always wore, as Stanley suddenly found the zigzagged patterns on his sneakers to be extremely interesting.

"Mmm, ain't it?" Mr. Hansen clasped his hands behind his back and then managed a pretty agile three-point turn in order to face himself towards Filbrick. His gruff voice was practically overflowing with zeal as he amiably barked at the other man. "Hell, we'll probably be able to ship your boy out to their headquarters in Texas before the end of the school year so he can start entering himself in the circuits over there. If he does well in those rings, which I don't doubt that he will, he'll probably be able to push himself to become a serious contender for next season's championship matches."

"Before the end of the school year?" Their mother questioned incredulously, putting her hand up to her chin and giving her son a bit of a hesitant glance herself. "You mean, Stanley's gonna be missin' out on his education?"

"Hmm. I don't think he's going to be missing out on much." Filbrick mildly grumbled, unconcerned. "School was never really his forte anyways."

Stanley was still reeling; completely flabbergasted and disbelieving that something like this was happening to him of all people. He was now very glad that he was sitting down because if he had been standing at this point then he was pretty sure that he would have already knocked a lamp or some other breakable object over in his barely containable enthusiasm. And as he'd had the opportunity of learning on numerous occasions before, cleaning up a mess of broken glass while his father was angrily glaring over his progress wasn't exactly a fun way to spend the afternoon. His chest was swelling with something hot and bright that sent a surge of tingly nervous voltage racing through his extremities and down to the very tips of his fingers and toes. The expression on his face was shifting itself back and forth between complete bewilderment, awe, smug satisfaction, and a slowly widening, proud smile. He'd always been ambitious when in came to clearing out the competition in his matches, but this was bigger than any of that, far bigger, and as consequence he felt a lot bigger too.

Of course he knew that he was good at boxing, excellent, gifted, brilliant; everyone always told him as much. He'd even managed to hold an untarnished winning streak for himself this season, which wasn't an easy feat to accomplish by any stretch of the imagination given some of the opponents he'd faced thus far. But having official and unbiased professionals in the field take note of his skill was on a completely different level than just hearing the praises of close friends and family members. The now very real seeming possibility that the people who watched and managed fighters for a living might judge his abilities enough to push him out and onto the national stage was beyond invigorating. He couldn't help but want to start hitting things already just to blow off some of the excess energy that was sparking up inside of him.

"T-this is nuts!" He finally managed to stutter out while shaking his head and shooting his coach a wide-eyed, ear-to-ear grin. "You aren't serious are you? I'm not even gonna be eighteen till… I-I mean… Will they actually take me in that early?"

Mr. Hansen grunted and gave a small nod as he once again settled himself back against the case showing off a number of very expensive looking, and probably illegitimately acquired, Rolex watches. "Usually they wouldn't, but only complete numbskulls wouldn't see your potential and try to stake you out early on; especially considering the fight record you've managed to rack up already. And while the fella's in the federation might be all kinds of corrupt when the right amount of money is involved, numbskulls they are not."

"So what kind of figures are we talking about here." Stanley's father probed as he leaned forward a bit more attentively in his seat. His face had morphed itself back into business mode, the kind of impassive and appraising scowl he often wore when he was trying to haggle down an especially stubborn or sentimental seller.

"For someone with Stanley's level of skill?" Mr. Hansen let out a loud snort and smirked widely as he gave his fingers some apperceive rubs like he was showing off a couple of invisible bills. "Oh the way he'll probably shoot through the ranks we could easily be talking about twenty grand and upwards per prizefight, and that's just starting out. Once your boy makes a name for himself on an international level he could be making millions."

Filbrick's eyebrows shot up a little in surprised admiration, and he released a long and deliberate sigh through his nose while settling himself comfortably back into the couch. "Millions, huh."

"This is… t-this is…" Stanley finally determined at this point that it was best to just completely give up at forming intelligible sentences, and he instead stared up at the ceiling in abject wonder. "Holy cow."

Mrs. Pines, on the other hand, didn't seem nearly as taken in with the proposition that was being made as her husband and son on either side of her. After shooting the two a few looks that went completely unnoticed, her mouth twisted itself into a slight frown and her eyes darted thoughtfully to the side for a moment. Deciding to take matters into her own hands she reaffixed her gaze on Mr. Hansen to voice one of the aspects of the situation that was currently troubling her. "Well, this is certainly some pretty excitin' news, but um... what about Stanford? I mean, I know ya haven't really put him in any of your official matches yet, but he's been workin' real hard on his jabs and improvin' a lot in these past few months. Do ya think there's any chance that he might have a career here too?"

Upon hearing his mother's question Stanley was almost immediately snapped out of his semi-dazed state, and he couldn't help but wince a little in secondhand embarrassment already knowing very well the answer that she was going to receive.

He was sure that his mother hadn't meant in her request to bring to light Stanford's... less than admirable performance when it came to fighting, as it was very likely that she wasn't aware of just how badly he'd actually taken to the sport. Ma Pines was a pretty supportive parent, the type who would always cheer loudly from the stands and shout obnoxious obscenities in her thick jersey accent whenever she ended up going to one of their events. But she was also the kind who would almost always leave just after her boys were finished as she didn't really care about how other peoples' kids done and didn't have the patience to pretend or lie otherwise. Since Stanford hadn't been put in any official matches yet the only person she's ever gotten to compare his skill in the ring to was Stanley's, and he was a prodigy who was expected to do leagues better than everyone else. She'd never really seen how the average boxers in their weight class were expected to fight, and as such, probably didn't realize just how far Stanford lagged behind in those standards.

And there was more to it than that. Even if she could have somehow convinced coach Hansen to find a way to open up this opportunity for Stanford as well, the probability that his brother would even be interested in taking it up was slim to none. The only reason he'd ever gotten into boxing in the first place was because their father had made them do so in order to help toughen them up when they were younger, and the only reason that he was still sticking with it now was because it had become such a huge part of Stanley's life and Stanford wasn't overly fond of doing things or going places without his brother. Boxing was something that Stanford had always ever done for the sake of convenience rather than passion, and Stanley couldn't really imagine his brother getting a career in the field and actually enjoying it.

No, Stanford's primary interests lay in… other areas. Ones that always seemed more likely to incite mockery than admiration.

Knowing all of this, Stanley wasn't surprised in the slightest when Mr. Hansen answered his mother in the negative. However, he did find himself extremely taken aback by the unnecessarily and critical cruelty of his response.

"Mam, is that supposed to be a joke!?" The older man was barely able to choke back his rough laughter as he shot Mrs. Pines a look that suggested he was seriously taking her sanity into question. "Stanley might be a diamond in the rough, but that other boy of yours wouldn't even make it if he was two hundred and fifty pounds of pure muscle and competing in the featherweight division. As much as I'd like to offer you up some options concerning him, there's just nothing to offer up. The boy's a failure. He's completely talentless, unfocused, has no real work ethic, got a glass chin, hits like he can't see what's two feet in front'a him, an average amount of brains I suppose…"

"I… I just thought that maybe…" Stanley's mother trailed off and wrung her hands together in mild embarrassment, but she didn't let her determined, almost beseeching gaze waver away from Mr. Hansen. Unfortunately, the gravely voiced man didn't seem to be willing to budge in the slightest and merely gave her a dismissive wave.

"Don't even bother thinking about it. Look, there's a saltwater taffy store on the dock, and somebody's gotta get paid to scrape the barnacles off of it. Stanley has the potential to be molded into something great, he's going places. But how's anyone supposed to make anything out of his waste of a brother. Hey, look on the bright side Mrs. Pines: at least you'll have one son here in New Jersey foreve- Argh!"

Couch Hansen's dialogue was suddenly interrupted by the loud and thundering sound of a hard fist smacking against flesh and bone. Shattering glass jingled, chimed, and reverberated all throughout the small pawnshop as he was knocked backward over the display case and sent careening into the rug on the other side of the counter.

It took Stanley a moment or two to register the fact that he was now standing up instead of sitting, and that knuckles on his left hand were stinging a little after the impact that his fist had made against the older man's sturdy cheekbone. He couldn't really say he was all that surprised that his brain was trailing so sluggishly behind the rest of him. It was hard for him think when he felt as lightheaded as he did right now, with the space between his ears ringing like a steaming teakettle, and the torrid blood in veins simmering throughout his chest and face in blistering hot boil. But then, he didn't necessarily need to think when it came to defending his brother; the reaction had been pretty much automatic.

"Stanley!" His mother admonished sharply once she had managed to close her jaw, which had previously been hanging open in stunned shock. She gave him a glare that probably wasn't as disapproving as it really should have been before quickly springing off from the couch and around the broken glass of the display case to go check on Mr. Hansen.

But Stanley couldn't bring himself to feel even the slightest bit of regret for his actions. If anything he was still quite angry, and the dark and hard scowl burned into his expression like an ugly brand conveyed that truth quite profoundly. "Say that again." He just managed to grind out from between his clenched teeth." I dare ya!"

Even now his breathing was hard and ragged despite the minimal amount of physical effort that the punch had required, and his tightly clenched hands were trembling in the severity of his rage like tense coils bucking and shuttering under an immense pressure. If Mr. Pines hadn't grabbed a handful of the front of his shirt and roughly shoved his back against the wall by the stairwell, effectively pinning him down, then Stanley probably would've attempted another swing at the old boxing instructor even as his mother was helping him back up into a standing position. Stanley immediately started squirming around under his father's hand and trying to knock off the older man's grasp on his collar in an attempt to get free, but Filbrick wasn't having any of it.

"Hey!" He snapped sternly as he jerked his arm back slightly and slammed his son into the wall again to get his attention. "That's enough outta ya, you knucklehead. Cool your jets already."

"Oh, Mr. Hansen are you alright? I'm so sorry about that." Stanley's mother cooed sympathetically, placing one of her slim hands on the man's back to help balance him as he began to regain his footing.

Aside from seeming a little shaken and sporting an angry looking welt just under his right eye that was sure to develop into a nasty bruise later on, Mr. Hansen appeared to be in relatively good health. It didn't take more than a few seconds for him to collect his composure again and start to brush off Mrs. Pines concerned fussing.

"Yeah. Yeah, don't sweat it." He muttered distractedly, tilting slightly to fight off a wave of stunned disorientation. He tried settling his hand on the counter as a means of supporting himself, but had to quickly move it away again to avoid getting cut on the shattered glass. "I wouldn't coach boxing if I wasn't capable of taking a couple'a hits here and there."

Stanley didn't get a lot of time to watch his coach recover before the grim displeasure radiating from his father's flinty glare brought his focus back to the man who was currently holding him firmly against the wall. "What the hell was that you little punk?!" Filbrick snarled lowly, grip tightening incrementally as his sharp and piercing eyes peeked out from behind the dark shade of his glasses.

But Stanley wasn't in the mood to be intimidated. If his father wanted to play ball then he was more than capable of throwing a few pitches of his own. And truth be told, he was almost as furious with his behavior, or lack thereof, as he was with his coach's. "Up yours old man!" Stanley roared back unflinchingly. He leveled his own heated glower in his father's direction, bright and wet with the ferocity of his temper and stinging sense of betrayal. "How can you possibly let someone talk about your own son like that!? You should have been at his throat even faster than I was!"

Filbrick's expression flashed dangerously like a streak of forebodingly close lightning, and he raised his booming voice so steeply that the glass of the pictures beside Stanley's head seemed to quake in the wrath of it. "I said that's enough! I don't care if he calls your brother a worthless, good-for-nothing. I wouldn't care if he called me and your mother garbage! That man holds the key to your future success, and you are going to show him the proper respect he deserves. Now apologize for your actions!"

A stubborn snarl twisted itself onto Stanley's face. "Screw you!"

"Uh… w-would you be alright with leavin' right now." Mrs. Pines asked coach Hansen apologetically as she began shuffling him through the mess of merchandise and out towards the front door. "This might take a little while to clear up, and I think we got the gist of what you were sayin' anyways. Thank you so much for giving my boy this opportunity."

"Hm. No problem. I've raised a few kids myself so I know how it can be." The man groused back affably as he tenderly rubbed at his right cheek and allowed himself to be dismissed from the premises. However, before leaving he made sure to offer the older Pines twin one last bit of parting advice over his shoulder. "Oh and Stanley, once you've cooled off a little I want you to start practicing your bobbing and weaving. I know you've always been more of the brawler type who prefers to hold his ground, but considering the strength of the opponents you'll have to face in the future that's not really going to be feasible. Might as well start re-teaching yourself now." And with that, the little brass bell on the door of Pines Pawn's gave another slight jingle as coach Hansen walked back out and into the lively autumn afternoon street.

Stanley's mother glanced at back at her husband and son before shaking her head and sighing in a tired exasperation. Her heels clacked pointedly on the polished wooden floor as she approached them and then stopped to stand a few feet away, far enough that she wasn't intruding on the father and son 'bonding moment', but also close enough that she could quickly intervene if she needed to be a mediator. A tense hush fell over the rest of the store as Stanley and Filbrick continued their vehement staring contest, waiting for the other to give in first. Immovable and stubborn object faced off against equally immovable and stubborn object. It was like two tectonic plates rubbing each other the wrong way and creating an unmatchable friction, or two turbulent storm clouds circling around a highly pressurized focal point. A natural disaster any way you looked at it.

Finally, Mr. Pines' grip on his son's shirt loosened somewhat, and the heated expression on his face cooled down into something a little more impassive and aloof. His voice was still low to convey a clear warning, but at the very least it was now an appropriate volume for inside the house rather than shouting across a football stadium. "Look kid, I get that you care about your brother a lot. And regardless of whatever you may think, I care about him too. But let's be frank here, just because I care about him doesn't change the fact that he's a complete loser."

At this Stanley's scowl deepened once more in rebellious bull-headedness as he opened his mouth to combatively protest the remark, but his father pressed him hard into the wall again before he had the chance to speak his mind. "I said listen up ya knucklehead!" He snapped sharply.

The force of the impact knocked a couple of the hanging pictures loose this time, and they fell to the ground in a series of soft clacks. Stanley's mother gave an irritated grunt and muttered something along the lines of 'haven't you boys made enough of a mess already' just under her breath.

Filbrick's glasses slipped slightly down his nose as he stared down at his son, and Stanley couldn't help but become a little more subdued as he was fixed with the full and unrelenting weight of his formidable and stern gaze. "Just because you and Stanford might not like the facts of life don't make them any less true. Your brother's a loser, he's weak, and he doesn't have the drive to do anything productive with his future. The only reason he's ever gotten anywhere is 'cause he was riding on yer coattails like some sorta parasite. I care about both of my sons, but if one decides that he wants to be dead weight like your brother clearly has then I'm not gonna let him drag my other boy down with him. You have a chance to rise up outta this little hell hole we're living in and actually make something of yourself. Don't let your brother ruin that for you."

"You're wrong." Stanley stated simply, the heat of his own voice dying down a bit as his anger began to lose energy and burn itself out. Part of it was simply due to the fact that his temper only ever seemed to come in short and violent bursts. The other reason was because of… because of something he didn't really want to admit to himself; a seed of doubt in his mind. He tried to compensate for the slight lapse in his conviction by using his natural boldness and confidence as a foundation for his words, but he couldn't quite manage to erase the slight hesitancy of it. "Y-your… Stanford's not a loser, and he's not dead weight either!"

"Oh yeah?" One of Filbrick's eyebrows shot upward in a challenge. "Tell me somethin' Stanley. Is your brother still clinging to that dumb plan the two of you made when you were kids to sail around the world on that hunk'a junk you call a boat, or has he actually bothered figuring out a real future for himself?"

Stanley's frown deepened and he looked away, trying to maintain a steady and blank poker face. He didn't say anything, but it didn't seem to matter. His silence gave his father the only confirmation that he really needed anyways.

"Yeah, that's what I thought." Mr. Pines ground out callously as he gave a disapproving huff. "Plannin' out a career would actually require some effort and realism on his part, and he's never shown much of an interest in either of those two departments. He's always walking 'round with his head in the clouds so he won't have to acknowledge his own general ineptitude; 'cause if he did it would mean that he might actually have to try hard and improve himself, and like the lazy coward that he is, he wants to avoid that at all costs." Filbrick shook his head as his expression morphed into something that almost seemed on the verge of disgust. "To be perfectly honest, I'm not even sure that he's capable of makin' something worthwhile out of himself at all, not with the way he goes about with those stupid fantasies of his. Most likely your mother and I are going to have to spend the rest of our lives supporting him, because I doubt he'll ever be able to do it for himself. "

Stanley silently glared at his father for a few seconds as he attempted to clear away some of the hot and hazy outrage that was still clouding up his mind. When he finally did speak again, the venom of his voice was a whole lot more quiet, more controlled and focused, than it had been previously. "Well, maybe if you cared enough about him to learn his interests you'd know that Stanford's really good at deciphering and making up codes, and he knows a lot of stuff about the supernatural-"

Filbrick seemed to bristle at that as though Stanley had said something that had offended him on a personal level, and abruptly interrupted. "Oh don't even get me started on that garbage."

" _And_ …" Stanley pointedly ignored his father and continued plowing on forward with his tirade. "And he's a pretty great at drawing things to top it off. Maybe 'f ya tried playing to his strengths instead'a just focusing on the stuff he's bad at, then you wouldn't have such a hard time findin' value in him."

"Oh, and how does Mr. Bigshot Stanely Pines suggest I play to his strengths, huh?" Stanley's father mocked as he straightened his shoulders and shot his son a withering, condescending glance. "Send him to a fancy liberal arts college with the thousands of dollars I don't have, just so he can come back with mediocre grades and a degree that'll end up putting him behind a concessions stand anyways!"

"Once my boxing career takes off, I'll pay for him to go to college."

Filbrick scoffed dismissively at this and turned his head away, growing tired of his son's relentless stubbornness. The hardness of his eyes softened somewhat when he looked at Stanley again, and the forcefulness of his voice became a little more low, and muted. "You think that by mollycoddling him you're being a good brother, but all your really doing is making him dependent on you. Why don't you try letting him stand on his own two feet for once, eh? If he succeeds on his own, then good for him. If he fails, then let him fail. Either way it's not your problem. Unlike your brother, you're not so weak that you can't get by without someone else there to hold your hand the whole way."

Suddenly Filbrick's grip on his collar tightened again, and he pressed himself down close enough to Stanley's face that all he could smell was the overpowering and pungent odors of iron and cheap Cuban cigars. The glint in his eyes was steely and piercing. "This isn't a nice world Stanley, and it's not filled with nice people. So never forget to look out for number one first and foremost, because that's the only way you're ever going to become something great. And if the chains or the people of the world try to hold you back and keep you from your true potential, then cut 'em off. Because you don't need that. Because you don't need them. "

Stanley kept his own scowl stony and firmly in place. "Are we done here?"

Mr. Pines stared down at his son carefully for another moment or two as though he was trying to search for something in his face, before releasing the now thoroughly crumpled fabric of Stanley's shirt and taking a few steps back. "Yeah. We're done."

Filbrick then turned around and, to what must have been his mild surprise, found himself face to face with his wife's irritated grimace and tightly crossed arms. She shot a look at her son and then tilted her chin up to indicate for him to go ahead and go upstairs while the two of them hashed something out, and Stanley was more than happy to oblige his mother's request. He slipped himself around the corner an up the stairwell just as the sounds of angry and muffled muttering began to fill up the room behind him.

The stairs were small and narrow, and as such, had neither lights nor windows running along the walls making the hall a dark and shadowy place even during the middle of the day. Stanley had meant to immediately go up all the way and into the warm and bright sunlight that was streaming in from the much better lit second floor, but he inexplicably found himself stopped on the eighth step; halfway between his and Stanford's room above, and the unintelligible arguing taking place in the area just below. He felt… lost suddenly. Trapped in a kind of purgatory.

In all of the excitement he had nearly forgotten that Stanford still needed to be told all of what was going on; hadn't really considered what his reaction to this news might be. He was sure of course that his brother would be just as thrilled at the opportunity that was being presented to Stanley as he himself was at the moment. Right? Though, now that he thought about it, he wondered whether Stanford might require some time to accept it. Stanley's gaze sunk down to the step just above the one he was currently stuck on as the implications of getting acknowledged by the top dogs of the boxing world, and what that might mean for both himself and his brother, began to seep into his consciousness a bit more deeply. The more he mulled it over, the more he seriously began to doubt that his twin would actually be happy about this in any way at all.

And what was even worse was that he found himself not really caring about that as much as he felt he should have. His father's earlier words had woken up a strange and almost foreign resentment inside of him. A small seed that was now blossoming into something tangling and thorny; something that intertwined itself in the pockets of his lungs and wrapped possessively around his heart. It was savage, and severe, and suffocating.

Because when it came right down to it, and despite how harshly it had been spoken, there really was some truth to what his father had been saying. Stanford _was_ always lagging behind and counting on his brother to continue pulling him forward all the time. When he wasn't off sulking for one reason or another, or staring wistfully out at the sea, then he was usually tagging relentlessly along his older twin's heels like a lost puppy. And wasn't Stanley allowed to get tired of that after a little while? Shouldn't he be allowed to achieve something great without having to worry about the state of his younger twin? Why should he always have to work hard while his brother just wasted his time designing imaginary things and playing around with ideas that were bound to go nowhere in the long run? Why did he have to be stuck with him? Who was forcing him to do this?

Stanley felt abruptly nauseous thinking all of this, utterly sick to his stomach. His heart sat hot and heavily in his chest like a sooty clump of smoldering coal, and it was burning a painful, glowing orange hole right through his sternum. He was angry, and hurt, and betrayed, but he didn't know by who; his father, or Stanford, or himself.

His grip on the hand railing tightened slightly in his distressingly growing confusion and animosity towards the whole situation. Part of him wanted to still be thrilled about the prospects of becoming a boxing legend and being regarded as a champion in the sport. The other part spitefully wished that Mr. Hansen had never come today at all. And though the former had undoubtedly started off taking up more space in his mind, the latter was exponentially more potent, and it poisoned the rest of his thoughts like a drop of viscous ink spreading out slowly into clear water. This was supposed to be something exciting. It was supposed to be the best news of his life, a dream come true, and it certainly had seemed that way when Stanley's coach had first told him about it. But now… now it just tasted bitter and unpleasant.

He shook his head tiredly in an attempt to dispel the dark and creeping malice that was crawling out from the back of his mind, though, he wasn't as successful as he would have liked to be. Stanley hated being left alone with his own thoughts; it was absolutely exhausting. He couldn't even begin to comprehend why his brother enjoyed introspectively brooding by himself so much. Thankfully, after taking a few deep breaths to help steady his turbulent and vitriolic center he was able to pull himself somewhat more together. He refocused his attention to the floor just above him and found that he was once again able to lift his previously stiff and uncooperative legs. He stepped out ominously onto the ninth stair, and from there, forced himself to quickly ascend the rest of the way up to the second story and towards the slightly cracked open door of his and Stanford's room.

He almost walked in immediately, but upon reaching the entryway Stanley found himself once again ground to a halt right before going in; temporarily stunned and blinded by a razor thin stream of warm yellow sunlight that flashed across his left eye at his approach. The slim and bright ray was seeping steadily out from the room beyond, cutting down the length of his shadowed body from the top of his head to the bottom of his shoes. The pupil in his coppery brown eye contracted in the intense light as his gaze sunk gradually to look down at his hand. At the angle that it was currently stretched across his palm, the amber beam almost looked like a sixth finger jutting sharply out just after his pinky, and the appendage trembled slightly as he closed it into an uncertain fist. A minor shiver ran up Stanley's spine as he reached out and pushed the door open, and the narrow strip of sunlight quickly widened and washed away the shadows hanging about in the hallway around him.

Stanford was sitting hunched over at his desk with his back towards Stanley, taking a moment to glance at his open math textbook before jotting something down in a few quick and concise scribbles. The bright daylight flooding in from the open window in front of the younger twin was in stark contrast to the dark shape of his body, and the particles of dust that outlined the suspended shadow he was projecting twitched and jerked fluidly in time to the movement of his handwriting.

For second or two Stanley had a hard time recognizing his brother. He couldn't exactly explain it, but he felt a little like he was looking at a complete stranger. It was something he had never really experienced before, and he wasn't sure if it had been suddenly brought about because there was something wrong with Stanford, or if it was because something had recently changed in him. Either way, it was unsettling.

Stanley slowly made his way into the room and around the side of the desk to lean comfortably against the wooden frame of his and Stanford's bunk beds. He couldn't say that he was too surprised when his brother continued working on his math homework instead of looking up and acknowledging Stanley. After all, his loud lumbering up the stairs combined with the ever-squeaky hinges of their room's door hadn't exactly made his presence here a secret, so the fact that Stanford hadn't greeted him when he first entered made it pretty obvious that he was ignoring his brother on purpose. Given the way he had moved his hand up to cover his face and hide his expression, Stanley could easily guess as to why.

Stanford had been eavesdropping in on the conversation below, and had most likely heard everything that had been said. Listening to the way their father and boxing coach had talked would be enough to make anyone upset, doubly so for someone with a self-esteem as abysmal as Stanford's already was. Stanley certainly didn't hold it against his brother for being in a less than sociable mood at the moment. If their positions had been reversed, he knew he probably wouldn't have been much different himself.

"Hey." Stanley offered quietly, his soft tone cutting through the thick silence like a cool wind streaking through fog. "So… I 'm gonna go out on a limb here and say you heard all of that, huh."

Stanford's pencil stilled as he finished writing out the number two point eleven, but he didn't look up or respond back to his brother. The awkward hush between them stretched on for almost a full minute before Stanley made another attempt to break it. "Look, I'm sorry about what our old man was-"

"You don't have to apologize for him." Stanford's noticeably shaky voice interrupted briskly. "I-its fine. I'm fine. I already know what he thinks of me."

"Ah, ya know he didn't really mean it, he's just…." Stanley tried to infuse a little assuagement into the conversation, but he couldn't think of anything else to say. The words just rang too hollow for him to feel comfortable continuing with the sentence, and a long and drawn out sigh scraped its way past his lips instead.

Stanford shifted around in his seat a little before finally lifting his head to face his brother, revealing his slightly glassy and red-rimmed eyes. The lack of tear tracks indicated that he hadn't been crying, but Stanley figured that he'd probably come pretty close to it anyways. He looked tired, and alone, and more than a little unsure. But when he peered up at his brother there was a warm hope in his expression and a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"…Stanford." The whispered name was so soft that it was rendered almost completely inaudible by the background noise filtering in from the street below the window. Stanley reached out a tentative hand and grasped his brother's shoulder firmly, his own eyes starting to moisten a little as he regarded his twin's almost palpable misery.

"Heh. Can't brush it off that easily this time, can you?" Stanford joked a little, his hunched posture gradually starting to lift itself up as he marked his page in the textbook and then gently closed it. Stanley noticed that the bookmark he ended up stuffing into there was a metal carpenter's file that the pair had planned on taking out to the Stan O'War later to help smooth the ship down, strangely enough. His attention was brought back to his brother as Stanford spoke to him again, this time while giving him an oddly sympathetic look. "Besides, in regards to his temper you're probably going to have it a lot worse than me in a few days time."

That made Stanley's eyebrows shoot up a smidgen. "Hmm? What makes ya say that?"

"Well, how do you think he's going to react when you tell him that you're not doing the whole boxing thing."

Stanley's heart plummeted down into his feet upon hearing the absolute certainty radiating through his brother's voice while he said this. He drew himself away from Stanford as he leaned stiffly back against the bedframe, and his eyes were cast downward in murky frustration and regret. After a few seconds of gathering up his resolve he managed to lift his gaze to his brother again, and released another long sigh.

"…Stanford." He started hesitantly, still struggling to weigh his own stormy and agitated feelings against those of his brother. "Stanford, look I… I really like boxing, all right. I like hearing the crowd screaming my name. I like the rush of adrenalin that I always get runnin' through my veins. I like hittin' people, and I don't even really mind all that much that I get hit back either. This is something I love doing, and it's something that I'm really good at too. And… and it's… Well, it's not everyone who can succeed at this sport, especially to the point where they can make a full-blown career out 'f it." Stanley paused to bite the inside of his cheek a little, hoping that he could somehow get his brother to understand; wishing that his words would make him see reason. "Stanford, I have a real shot at this. You heard what coach was sayin', I can make it into the big leagues. This… this isn't an opportunity that I can just pass up."

Stanford's face was stunned and disbelieving as though he had just been slapped, and he suddenly became very still. "What about our plans to sail around the world on the Stan O' War?" He questioned, his eyes narrowing in a silent accusation as the speed and volume of his voice rose slightly. "What about investigating supernatural anomalies across the globe and becoming international treasure hunters? If you're busy with your boxing career, then when are you going to have time for m-"

The younger twin's mouth snapped shut quickly in an attempt to cut himself off, but by that point he had already said too much. It wasn't exactly difficult for Stanley to figure out what word he had originally been aiming for.

Stanford looked down, cheeks flushing lightly in shame and embarrassment, before he continued with his amended statement. "When are you going to have time for that?"

The previous bitterness that Stanley had felt in the stairwell started to rise again like a swelling wave of scorching, heated air at his brother's remark, and his patience finally fractured in exasperated irritation. He could scarcely believe that his brother was going to try and use _that_ of all arguments.

"Ah Ford, for Pete's sake!" He scowled deeply, trying to keep his frustration at bay and crossing his arms firmly in front of his chest. "Will ya get with the times already! Everyone keeps sayin' that it's never gonna work, that it's a real childish and naïve goal for the future. And ya know what, they're right. They're all absolutely right. If we try and do this stupid thing we're not gonna end up as world-famous adventurers or anythin' like that. More than likely we'll probably just spend the rest of our lives as a couple of drifting sea hobos. That dream we had about sailing around the world was fine when we were kids, gave us something to do when we got bored, but now…"

Stanley's tirade faded off a little, and the hard expression on his face softened dramatically. The stern and unyielding glint in his eyes, however, remained unchanged. "Stanford, we're almost done with high school." He implored. "We're practically adults now. We really gotta start thinking seriously about what we wanna do with our futures."

Stanford answered in a quiet coldness. The way he glared at Stanley was strange and desperate, seemingly torn between wanting to speak his mind, and wanting to simply withdraw himself back entirely into his dark and frigid shell. "I already had my whole future planned out. I've already known exactly what I've wanted to do since I was ten years old. We both… I-I thought we both…" Stanford winced, his voice hitching slightly before he abruptly stood up, causing his chair to scrape harshly against the wooden floor, and leveling an accusatory scowl back at his brother. "This…this isn't something wrong with me. You're the one who's changing things up suddenly."

"I'm not- I haven't changed suddenly." Stanley hotly defended. "I've always loved boxing and you've known that!"

"Weren't you the one who was just saying earlier that no matter what happens we would always look out for each other first and foremost." Stanford reminded, his eyes shining with a waning hope that was slowly transforming into fear. His slightly curled hands began trembling on the desk where they rested.

Stanley's voice cracked in heated aggravation as he sharply gestured with his arms. "Holy cow Stanford, will you take a chill pill! You're actin' like I'm abandoning you or somethin'."

"Isn't that exactly what you're doing!?" The younger twin shot back lightening fast, the volume of his words spiking steeply in his growing anxiety. "If you pursue this boxing career then you're going to be moving all the way out to Texas before the school year even ends. How are you supposed to have my back when you're thousands of miles away?!"

"It's not like you don't have a car Ford. You're just… just gonna have t'drive out and visit me sometime. And I'll be coming back home every now and then too." Stanley tried, wincing a little at how feeble the argument sounded even to his own ears.

Stanford scoffed as his eyes turned cold and bitter. "You really think we're going to be able to meet up that often? Yeah, but I'm the one you're accusing of being naïve." His gaze dropped back down to the desk, and he started mumbling almost more to himself than to his brother. "We… we've always spent every moment together, and now we're hardly going to see each other at all."

Stanley's own stare darted away weakly at this. In truth, it was something that was also bothering him a little too because he knew that once he ended up in Texas he would miss his brother, miss all of his family and friends, quite fiercely. But some part of him also kind of liked the idea of being out on his own as well; anticipated the freedom that would be granted when he didn't have to take orders from his father anymore, or when he no longer had to constantly look out over his shoulder and keep watch of his brother. It would be nice, he thought, to be able to hang around people and not have to worry about how they might react to Stanford's sensitivity or zealous love for the strange.

The two contradicting feelings were battling within Stanley's chest as though they were a pair of gale force winds sharply twisting and mutilating the flesh of his heart, and the uncertainty of his words clearly displayed that disharmony. "I-I don't…Well. I mean, look…"

But it didn't seem to matter because Stanford was paying very little attention to what his brother was saying anyways. He wasn't even looking at Stanley, instead lost somewhere in his own dejected hurt and self-doubt. His eyes were locked onto some empty and nonexistent space on the edge of their desk, and his dark glare froze his face into a mask of remote and frigid sorrow. "And what am I exactly supposed to do while you become a world famous boxer, huh?! Well, I mean besides taking my long predestined place as the family defect and disappointment. Am I just supposed to accept that I'm going to end up scraping barnacles off the bottom of the docks for the rest of my life? I'm not like you Stanley; I'm not good at anything. I'm not talented like you are. I can't make friends to save my life. I try to work hard, I-I really do, but… but nothing just… clicks with me. People are always looking down on me for my…" His fist on the desk unclenched itself a little, and six long fingers splayed out across the smooth wooded surface. Hesitantly, Stanford brought his hand up and stared at it like he himself barely recognized it, like it was a foreign concept, or someone else's hand that had been mistakenly attached to his body. He unconsciously flexed them a little, and the dazed blankness of his expression crumpled away completely revealing desolate despair and humiliation. "Everyone just thinks I'm a screw up, and I'm not really sure that they're wrong."

"Stanford-"

"Sailing around on the Stan O' War may seem like a stupid dream to you, but it's all that I… i-it's all that I…" Stanford brought his hand back down and closed his eyes tightly. His whole frame shivered almost imperceptibly, causing his shallow breath to hitch. He almost seemed to be begging Stanley, imploring, as he lifted his head to look his brother in the face again and tried to put a little more desperate strength in his timid voice. "It's the only hope that I've got. The only hope of having a future that's worth reaching towards. A future that's worth anything. It… it was supposed to be us forever. I never planned on it being any other way."

Stanley was forced to look away from his brother; he couldn't help it. He felt more torn now than he ever had before in his entire life. His whole torso was heating up unbearable as though it was just a rocky pocket for the small pool of scorching hot magma that was boiling, and spurting, and heaving inside of him, and the torrid pressure it caused wrapped itself tightly around his lungs making it hard to breath. He didn't want to cause his brother pain or hurt, he had lived most of his life trying to accomplish just the opposite. But he… he just… why couldn't he just.

Wasn't Stanley allowed to want something for himself for once?

"Stanford, I can't just… we'll figure something out for you, alright." He offered as softly and considerately as he could, still unable to move his gaze from a pair of dirty roller-skates that were laying haphazardly with their laces tangled in the right-hand corner of the room. He tried mentally untying the strings to keep his eyes occupied, anything to avoid looking back at his brother's heartbroken grimace. "You're good at drawing and stuff so maybe… Ugh. I don't know." He took a deep, unsteady breath, and then finally convinced himself to stop being such a coward. He gave his twin his full and complete attention. He needed to make him understand. "Look, this is one of the best opportunities that I've ever gotten or will probably ever get again. How many people actually get the chance to live out their dream, huh."

"Well, thanks to you I guess I'll never get the chance to understand anything about that, will I?" Stanford spat back harshly, his own temper spiking to an arctic fever pitch in the wake of his wounded and failing trust.

"Will you stop it! W-will you just-argh." Stanley yelled as he snapped even more caustically. A loud bang caused Stanford to flinch slightly as his twin abruptly slammed his fist against the frame of the bed in his growing indignation and ire. The older of the brothers ran a slow, shaking hand through his hair in an attempt to curb his anger, before fixing the younger with the full weight of his heated glare and speaking lowly." Why are you tryin' t'make me feel guilty about this, huh? Why are you trying to ruin this for me!? Why can't you just be happy for me! Ford, I've always protected you from bullies. I've always stuck up for you. I've always been on your side. Can't you just be on my side for once?" The sharp tilt of Stanley's brows relented a bit as he leveled his own hurt and accusing scowl at his twin. "I'm your brother. Don't you care about what I want at all?"

As soon as Stanley had said that, he desperately wished that he hadn't.

Stanford had always been very single-minded when it came to his plans for the future. He just wanted to get away from it all. To sail far away from this town and leave all the rest of the jerks in it behind as mere figments or specters of his past. To escape the mockery and belittlement of others. To explore, and discover, and look at the world in a way that no one had ever looked at it before. It had been his passion ever since they had been little kids, the task that he had poured his heart and soul completely into for almost seven years. It was the promise that he had muttered to himself after a bad dream in the middle of the night, or when someone teased him for his extra finger, or all those times their father shot him a disappointed glance.

And he couldn't do it alone; they both knew that. Stanford was a lonely person as it was. Without his brother there sailing at his side, pulling him from the dark doubts of his own mind, cracking his shell open when he retreated away, he would most likely cut himself off from the world altogether, and as consequence, slowly unravel, and fall apart.

Stanley's own indictment was bounced back at him harshly; reflected in his brother's inky black, downcast gaze behind his brightly gleaming spectacles, in the hopeless emptiness of his expression, in the bitter hurt of his almost unnoticeably trembling shoulders.

 _'I'm your brother. Don't you care about what I want at all?'_

Stanley's head was reeling. He felt sick, like he was going to throw up all of his internal organs onto the polished wooden floor. He needed air, just wanted to get out of there and stop thinking about all of this. "I'm gonna go…." He started weakly. "I'm gonna go help Carla out with her car. I'll be back in a little bit."

Stanley shifted himself off from the frame of the bunk bed and began making his way out of the room, his feet feeling heavy and oddly uncooperative beneath him. He only made it two-thirds of the distance to the door before Stanford's voice rang out and shot an icy comment from over his shoulder. "You should take the opportunity to go dancing with her tonight. I mean, it's not like we're going to be working on the Stan O' War ever again, so I guess Tuesday and Sunday nights are freed up for you now." Stanley turned half way around to face his brother, but Stanford's stiff and unreadable back gave nothing away. "You can do whatever you want."

A dark look passed across Stanley's face while he once again swiveled and started walking out of the room, but just as he reached the doorframe he was forced to pause. His breath caught in his throat as a wave of hazy lightheadedness suddenly overcame him completely. His body felt strangely numb beneath him, beyond the realm of his control as he tried unsuccessfully to get his loosened and disconnected limbs working again. He staggered and crashed into the wall, his sense of balance inexplicably abandoning him, and the next thing he knew he was laying face down on the ground with his brother grabbing his arm and worriedly looming over him.

"Stanley! Stanley are you alright? What's going on?"

"Mmm. Fine'm fine." He managed to mumble, wincing as the world around him tilted and began dissolving away. He blinked sluggishly as he looked out into the empty blackness, its dark tendrils peeking out from behind the thickly layered web of crimson glowing symbols that the wallpaper was transforming into. Stanley shook his head slightly to try and dispel the hallucination. "I just… Just got a little lightheaded there for a minute."

Stanford opened his mouth and started to say something, but then quickly snapped it closed and looked up as something out in the hallway caught his attention. His eyes widened in a mixture of surprise, wonder, and guarded caution. "W-who are you? _What_ are you?"

Stanley turned his own head a little as he tried searching the dark corridor to figure out what his brother was talking to. He couldn't see anything at first, but as his eyes adjusted he began to make out some vaguely blacker shape standing up against the wall. Once Stanley's line of sight was fully able to trace out its outer edges, his blood ran ice cold.


End file.
